21 Years
by Joelle8
Summary: 21 years. 21 years were the most minor of the numerous things that seperated them. But the heart wants what the heart wants... no matter how dangerous it is, and no matter what the consequences might be.
1. Prologue

**21 Years**

Prologue

He first saw her when she was fifteen and he was thirty-six.

She was known as the best of the best when it came to pole vaulting; and, based on the performance he had just witnessed, it was clear why. Her moves were fluid, swift, and as graceful as a gazelle. A small smirk was set on her young, beautiful face, the lack of sweat showing just how easy this sport was for her. The smirk changed into a full-blown grin when the words echoed around the stadium in several different languages, eventually English:

"And Irina Spaskaya has won first place in the 1977 World Championships Women's Pole Vault!"

He cheered for her along with everyone else. Even though she was a Lucian (whether or not she knew it; she suspected that she didn't, based on her carefree demeanor and Tomas loves) and he had been given tickets to the Pole Vault World Championship to spy on her in the first place, she was clearly the winner. Clapping could hurt no one. In fact, it would probably benefit him; were he to not clap, then he would look out of place and suspicious.

As Irina Spaskaya gazed around at her audience with joy and appreciation in her eyes, he could have sworn that she stared straight at him. He felt himself burning inside, praying to whatever deities existed that she didn't recognize him as he forced himself to calmly stare back at her and act like he was just a spectator, but in the blink of an eye, she was looking away.

His cell phone rang, and he immediately dug through his black coat pockets to pull it out. He briefly read the caller ID before flipping open the phone and pressing it to his ear. "Hello, William."

"Good day, my old friend. How is the mission going?"

He glanced back down at the champion pole-vaulter and answered, "Couldn't be better. She's an excellent pole-vaulting; she won first place. An impressive feat for one as young as her, if you ask me; it makes me wonder if she has any Tomas blood in her."

"Interesting," William said thoughtfully from the other line. "So, she shows no sign of knowing that she is a Lucian?"

"None that I have observed."

"And if she ever does find out? What kind of agent will she make?"

"An excellent one," he replied without hesitation. "She is confident, athletic, stealthy, and fluent in multiple languages; not to mention, who knows what else she is capable of. Yes, she would make a formidable enemy, of that we can be sure."

"Good to know," William responded, and then paused. "You know, nowadays, it really is hard for me to believe that you were ever as shy as Grace makes you out to have been."

"People change," he spoke easily. "It's part of growing up. I just took longer than most."

"Yes, I suppose you did," William chuckled. "It's a good thing for us Madrigals that you did, though. You are an invaluable asset."

"Thank you," he grinned, even though he knew that William couldn't see it. "Anything else you need to tell me?"

"No. Any additional information to report to our leader?"

"Tell Grace that I still do not anyone but you two to know that I exist," he ordered. "She's been nagging me even more than usual recently. It's getting quite annoying, to be honest."

"She just wants to introduce you to Hope. The girl is seventeen years old now; it kills Grace that her daughter can't know her favorite family member."

"It's safer for everyone if the fact that I am alive stays a secret," he told William. "Someday, I hope that I will meet Hope. But not today."

"As you wish," William sighed, obviously wanting to say more.

"Goodbye, William."

"Goodbye, Fiske."

Fiske Cahill flipped his phone shut, tucked it back into his pocket, and exited the arena.

_**First things first, this is just the prologue. The rest of the chapters (and I don't know how many there will be, by the way) will be MUCH longer. I promise. Second, this is rated T just in case I use any sort of bad language. For those of you who are uncomfortable with cursing, there won't be much in here, but I understand if you don't want to read this story because of it. Third, if any of you uncomfortable with romances between people with marginal age differences, don't read this. Just a warning. **_

**_Now that that's done with... What did you think? Please review; I want to know whether or not I should continue this story! Yes, it's an unusual pairing; I'm hoping people will grow to like it, though!_**

**_Thanks so much for reading- and hopefully reviewing!_**

**_-Joelle8_**

**_P.S. Disclaimer: I don't own the 39 Clues or any characters whose names you recognize._**

**_P.P.S. Yes, William is William McIntyre, in case you didn't figure that out already._**

**_P.P.P.S. If you have some spare time, I'd be really appreciative if you'd vote on my poll on my profile! Thanks!_**


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"Get your filthy hands off me, you great oaf!"

These, amongst several other curses that were not nearly as polite, were the words a certain twenty-five-year-old Lucian agent shot at her captor.

"I have told you many times before, snake," the aforementioned captor spoke, thoroughly aggravated. "I have my orders to follow from the leader. I must lock you up."

"Oh, of course, you cannot disobey the 'wonderful' Cora Wizard!" Irina Spaskaya spit on the ground beneath her, showing her immense disgust at this men and his fellow Janus. "She is _nothing _compared to us Lucians! You Janus are all buffoons! Can you conquer the world with _paintbrushes_? Bah! Of course not! You-"

Before she could finish her sentence, the Janus agent stuck a cloth in her mouth and tied it, effectively gagging her and shutting her up. "Finally," he sighed, unable to discern her burning glare due to the darkness around them, "peace and quiet."

Flail as she did, the young Lucian woman was reluctantly powerless against the man, with her hands and feet tied and her poisonous fingernails removed. She could not believe that she had failed this badly- yes, it was her first mission, but for _her _to _fail _at something as simple as trying to assassinate Cora Wizard's new husband, Broderick… It was simply _shameful_.

"Stupid power outage," the Janus agent muttered at one point, right after stubbing his toe on a bucket that, for whatever reason, had been in the middle of the hallway. "I wish the lights were on. Then maybe I wouldn't bump into something every two seconds."

For once, Irina agreed with him.

Before too long, she found herself being unceremoniously thrown into the far wall of a dark, cold cell with dirt, grime, and some unidentifiable wet substance all over it. Despite her tough exterior, she cringed in disgust.

"All our cells are filled," the Janus agent began, "so you two will have to double up. Rookie Lucian, meet Unidentified Cahill. Unidentified Cahill, meet Rookie Lucian." Without waiting another second there, the man locked the cell door, tucked the keys into his pockets, and strode down the corridor, whistling a merry tune.

Irina gaped at where the man had just stood, completely dumbstruck. It was one thing to capture her and lock her up. It was a whole different story to lock her up with another person for who knows how long.

Speaking of another person…

"Hello," a deep, quiet voice greeted her cordially. Squinting, she could just barely make out a tall figure sitting down across from her on the cell floor. "I presume you would like to be untied?"

The Lucian nodded rapidly, and the man chuckled at her eagerness. With deft, calloused hands, he untied her arms and legs and gently took the gag out of her mouth. Instantly, she gasped and began swearing in Russian.

"I'm sorry," the man interrupted her, "but I don't understand a word you're saying."

She stopped and whipped her head towards him. "That is because I speak Russian, of course," she told him condescendingly. "As you Americans say, 'Duh'."

The man chuckled. "And how did you know I am American?"

"I am no idiot," Irina snapped at him. "I can recognize an American accent when I hear one. It is not hard."

"No, you're right, it's not," the man agreed. He stuck out his hand politely and said, "I expect that we'll both be here for awhile. There's no point in holding any animosity towards each other until we escape. Even though we are part of different branches."

Irina raised an eyebrow. "I take it, then, that you are not a Lucian?"

"You take it right," he answered smoothly.

"What is your branch, then?"

"That, I'm afraid, I cannot tell you," the man told her. "Don't take it personally."

"Why would I?" Irina asked. "I care not."

"Really?" Now, it was the man's turn to raise an eyebrow. "You don't care which branch I'm a part of?"

"Not at the moment," Irina shrugged. "It matters not here, no?"

"True," the man nodded. "By the way, are you going to shake my hand or not?"

Only then did the Lucian realize that the man's hand was still extended. She eyed it suspiciously for a moment before frowning and shaking her head. "No. I do not trust you."

"And why is that?" the man questioned, not sounding offended in the least bit.

"I do not know you," Irina replied coolly. "You have given me no reason to trust you."

"But I haven't given you a reason not to trust me, either."

Irina merely grunted. She was not willing to admit that she had been outsmarted. Suddenly, she felt her hand encased by a large, warm, rough one, and she was so shocked that she didn't pull away immediately. Once she did, though, she glared ferociously at the man.

"How dare you touch me!" she hissed at him. "How dare you touch me without my consent! You piece of trash!"

"My apologies," the man said. "I had to prove to you that nothing would happen, though. When they captured me a month ago, they stripped me of my weapons as well."

There was a heavy silence for a few moments. Finally, Irina broke it. "Who are you?"

Even in the darkness, she could make out the man's mischievous grin as he responded, "I am everyone and I am no one."

"Is that what I am to call you?"

"No…" the man paused, thinking. "You may call me… Monet."

"Monet? Was he not a painter?"

"He was. He is my favorite."

"You enjoy art then, yes?"

"Very much so. In fact, for a long time, I had my heart set on becoming an artist."

"Are you a Janus, then?"

"No, no," Monet laughed heartily. "My dear Irina Spaskaya, if I were a Janus, then would I be locked up in their dungeon?"

"I am your 'dear' nothing," Irina told him, disregarding the last part of his answer. "And how do you know my name?"

"I saw you in a pole vaulting competition ten years ago," the man replied. "You look very much the same."

"I take it you were spying on me, yes?" The Lucian asked.

"How did you know?" Monet inquired, sounding amused.

"What are the chances of you just happening to go to the pole vaulting competition in which someone of the enemy branch was competing?" Irina pointed out smartly.

"Hmm… excellent deductive reasoning there. Are you sure you have no Ekaterina blood in you?"

"I am nothing like those conceited know-it-alls," Irina stated proudly. "Are you sure that _you _have no Ekaterina blood in you?" She asked this as if it was an insult; Monet, however, saw it different.

"I know for a fact that I do, somehow. In fact, you do, too. Your ancestor, Luke- the founder of the Lucian branch- was the brother of Katherine, the founder of the Ekaterina branch. So, you do indeed have Ekaterina blood in you, as do I."

Irina scowled. "You think you know all, no? You are- how do you Americans say it?- a smarty-pants. It is very annoying."

"I'm sure not being as smart as me is very annoying to you, Irina," Monet chortled. Irina's scowl deepened, and the man continued, "It's not your fault, though, have no fear. After all, I am forty-six, whereas you are only twenty-five. I am supposed to know more than you."

"Age has nothing to do with anything!" Irina snapped.

Suddenly, the lights flickered back on, and Irina could examine her cellmate more thoroughly. He was a tall man, with visible stubble on his jaw line, as well as straight black hair that hung over electric blue eyes that were filled with life and mirth, despite their desolate surroundings. He was dressed entirely in black; black shoes, black pants, a black T-shirt (that looked extremely loose and comfortable), a black trench coat, and even a black hat.

At the same time, Fiske was looking over Irina. She did, as he had already stated, look almost exactly like she did ten years ago at the pole vaulting competition. There were only a few minor differences; her blond hair was shorter, and her arms were, from what he could see, even more toned. He could assume that the rest of her body was, too. Her cheekbones were more prominent on her face, and her mouth looked like it hadn't smiled in ages. She was still beautiful, though.

"Well," Irina said after a few moments, "we must divide up the cell, yes? One side is mine, one is yours?"

"Am I really that bad?" Monet laughed, not at all offended.

"Not so far, though you are annoying. But you are a boy. And I am not. So we get different sides of cell."

"Fair enough," Monet agreed, and then picked up a sharp rock from his side, stood up, and drew a line on the cell floor that split up one half of the cell from the other. "This side of the cell will be mine, and that side will be yours. Agreed?"

Irina looked at the two sides for a minutes before nodding, "Agreed. No crossing the line unless given express permission from the other."

"Alright," Monet said. "I think I'm going to catch up on some sleep now. Good night, Irina."

"What is so good about a night spent in a dungeon?"

"It's a customary saying, Irina. I thought you would know that."

"I do know that! I just do not think it goes well considering the situation!"

"Fine. Then sleep well."

"But I am not going to sleep yet! And how can I sleep well in a cell?" She would have continued, but a soft snore alerted her to the fact that her companion was asleep. _How rude! _She thought. _I cannot believe that he fell asleep while I was talking to him! Arrogant American!_

With those heated thoughts, she went against her previous words and fell asleep.

_**Just in case you didn't realize, yes, "Monet" is really Fiske Cahill.**_

**_So, what did you think of this chapter? Thanks to everyone who's reading (and reviewing, hopefully!) this story- I understand that it's a bit... controversial, to say the least!_**

**_PLEASE review! I'd like to have at least three before I update, thanks!_**

**_-Joelle8_**


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Here's your grub." The Janus agent was back, along with two plates of food that were smaller than his beefy hands.

"What is that- that- _mush_?" Irina asked, her face a priceless mixture of horror and revulsion. She had, however, summed up the food she and Monet were to be served in one word: mush. It vaguely resembled mashed peas, and emitted a strong stench of rotten eggs.

"I told you. It's grub," the Janus replied, suppressing a smirk when Irina placed a hand over her mouth, fighting the urge of barf.

"Wait-" Monet stepped forward beside Irina, eyeing the plates warily. "Do you mean that that's actual _grubs_? As in, _bugs_? Dead and mashed, in this case?"

"Oh, only some of them are dead." The Janus drawled nonchalantly. Right on cue, a caterpillar crawled out of the pile of mush. "See?"

Irina's eyes widened. "You- You expect us to eat _that_?"

"What else are you going to eat?" the Janus shrugged, wearing a perfect poker face, while inside, he was cheering, _Ah, disgusting Lucians. There's nothing better._

"Are you sure that you can't get us some- oh, I don't know- _edible _food?" Monet asked, his expression identical to Irina's now.

"News flash, Unidentified: bugs _are _edible. And they're the best you're gonna get. Now, do you want your food, or would you rather go hungry?"

"Food."

"Go hungry."

Monet and Irina glared at each other, having spoken contradictorily at the same time. "I'm not eating _that_!" Irina exclaimed, pointing a trembling finger at the mush, which had just had a fly land on top of it (or crawl out of it; she couldn't tell, to be honest).

"Would you rather starve to death?" Monet shot back. "I don't want to eat that either, but it's better than nothing!"

Irina took a few deep breaths, her brown eyes closed, calming herself. Finally, she opened her eyes toward the Janus. "I will take the food."

The Janus grinned evilly and shoved the plates through the cell bars. Monet clenched his jaw, seeming to steel his nerves, and gingerly took the plate and set it down in front of him. Irina was much more hesitant. Cringing the whole time, she grabbed the edge of the plate with just her index finger and her thumb, held it as far out in front of her as she could, placed in onto the ground, and hopped back a few steps. Laughing raucously at the Lucian's behavior, the Janus walked away from the cell and back to his post.

Monet sighed. "Irina, you'll have to learn to adapt to rather… unpleasant experiences and conditions."

"You call this _unpleasant_?" Irina asked. "This is not _unpleasant_! This is… this is… revolting! Unsanitary! Disgusting! Barbaric! Crude! Vile-"

"So are many things you'll have to do," Monet cut her off. "It's upsetting, Irina, but it's the truth. You'll get used to it after awhile."

Irina glared into thin air. "Isabel and Vikram did not tell me about this."

"You're on a first-name basis with the branch leaders, eh?" Monet raised an eyebrow, almost amusedly. "I take it you know them well?"

"Yes. We met in college at Oxford. But that is none of your business, as you Americans say," Irina snapped, her glare turning towards her companion. "Isabel told me that being a Cahill was rewarding. That I would enjoy it."

"You'll learn to, have no fear," Monet assured her. "Some aspects of Cahill life do take some getting used to, however. The constant running… always having to look over your shoulder, no matter where you go… I hate to break it to you, Irina, but being forced to eat bugs is the least of the troubles us Cahills face."

For a few moments, Irina was silent. _I did not sign up for this, _she thought.

"There's no going back now," Monet told her. Only then did Irina realize that she had accidentally thought aloud. "Once a Cahill, always a Cahill."

"I have only known that I am a Lucian for a few years! I only completed my training a few months ago!" Irina declared heatedly. "I am barely a Cahill!"

"The blood of Gideon and Olivia Cahill runs through your veins, Irina. You can't be 'barely' a Cahill; you either are, or you aren't. And you _are _a Cahill."

Irina sighed, thinking hard. "I cannot go back, then?"

"No. I'm sorry, Irina."

"Do not apologize!" Irina ordered. "You did nothing! I do not want your pity! I am Irina Spasky- I do not give up! I will become the best Lucian the world has ever known!"

The sight of her youthful eyes filled with so much hope and determination made Monet's heart swell. At the same time, it made his heart deflate, because he knew that there was no way that Irina would be able to live a long, happy life. Not with those kinds of ambitions.

He wasn't going to be the one to tell Irina that, though. Not when she was smiling for the first time since she had entered the cell.

"Will you help me?"

Monet jerked his head towards Irina in shock. "_What_?"

"I asked if you will help me."

"Yes, yes, I heard that, but- _why_?"

"You are an experienced Cahill," Irina began slowly, choosing her words carefully. She hated complimenting people. "You know what hardships agents must face- and how to overcome them. You know what I will need to be able to do to become a good Lucian."

"Well, I wouldn't say _that_-"

"You are not a good agent, then?" Irina interjected with a raised eyebrow. "Are you a failure to your branch?"

"What? No! Far from! I am my branch's best agent! I am one of our leader's right hand men!"

"Then you admit that you know everything that I would need to know about being a Cahill?"

"…Yes," Monet admitted rather reluctantly. He had a feeling that he knew where this was going now, and he did _not _want to-

"Teach me."

"No," Monet shook his head automatically. "No, no, no. A thousand times no."

"Why not?" Irina questioned. "What else will you do? Who knows how long we will be here- are we really just going to sit around and chat for all that time and let ourselves waste away until, when the option to escape comes along, we aren't strong enough to go along? I do not know about you, Monet, but I plan to spend my time here as best I can."

Monet was silent. _She had a point, _he grudgingly admitted in his mind. _But if I help teach her, she could be a major threat to my branch one day; not to mention to me. I have no doubt that she could succeed at most anything she put her mind to. However, if I don't teach her, then I might as well add her name to my list of enemies… c'mon, Fiske, think! What should I do?_

_Teach her, _his inner voice suggested. _Teach her what you know. But make her promise not to ever use what you teach her against you after you escape the prison._

_Marvelous idea, _he complimented his inner voice, and then looked Irina straight in the eye. "I will teach you-"

"Excellent!"

"-_But_, you have to promise never to use what I teach you against me."

Irina scrutinized her companion's earnest face. He seemed to be entirely serious, and his eyes were telling her that he meant ever word he said. However, she was reluctant to agree to his terms. _What if, years from now, we meet on different terms and must fight? _She asked herself. _What if we are forced to attack each other? He would be at a definite advantage._

_Then you have two options, _the little voice inside her head replied. _If you and Monet ever have to fight later in life, you can use your skills that he did not teach you, and hope that you are able to overpower him. Or, you can make him promise not to use any of what he teaches you against you as well._

_Interesting… I think I'll go with both._

"If you can have conditions," Irina started, staring back at Monet unnervingly, "then so can I."

"Alright," Monet said, crossing his arms expectantly. "I'll hear them."

Irina picked her words carefully. "If, in the future, we are forced to fight each other, you are not allowed to use what you teach me against me, just as I am not allowed to use what you teach me against you. We must use other techniques against each other; strategies that the other doesn't know."

"Fair enough," Monet nodded slowly. "It will be a fairer fight that way, anyways. Shall we shake on it?" He stuck out his hand, his eyes dancing almost hopefully.

Irina warily accepted his hand, and they shook firmly. Monet grinned triumphantly (so, of course, Irina had no choice but to scowl back at him).

"Fantastic. We can start today," he said, "by making you eat these bugs."

Irina gulped, eyeing the grubs with pure revulsion etched on her features. "How about we start tomorrow?"

Monet laughed- a deep, rumbling sound that, despite their dreary surroundings, was full of good spirits, as if he was sitting on a plush couch at a party and not on a stone floor in a prison. "As you wish, my lady," he chuckled.

"I am not your lady!"

He ignored her completely. "We both better rest up, I think. Starting now. Don't let the bed bugs bite, Irina."

"Now there are _bed bugs_, too? What is it with this place and bugs? Perhaps the Janus have some strange connection with insects; I must tell Isabel about it-"

"It's a _saying_, Irina. It means 'Good night'."

"…So there are no bed bugs?"

"Not in the slightest."

"…Oh. Well, that was very rude of you to lie to me; I am Russian, after all, I do not know all of your silly American sayings-"

"Good night, Irina."

_**Just so you know, it's incredibly fun to write a confused Irina.**_

**_Thanks to everybody for the reviews! They mean a lot to me! PLEASE keep it up! If possible, I'd like to have at least 3 before I update again! Otherwise, how do I know that people want me to continue?_**

**_Thanks again!_**

**_-Joelle8_**


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes."

"Note that I'm much older and more experienced than you, so I will probably make this look easy, but you might find it very challenging-"

"I know."

"-So you have to be on your guard the whole time. Don't let anything distract you."

"Alright. Let's begin."

"…You're _sure _that you're ready? You don't need any time to mentally prepare? This is, after all, a skill that takes some people years to master-"

"I'm well aware of that, Monet. I am ready."

"Well, if you're sure…" Monet trailed off and, without further ado, jabbed his hand in the pile of grub on the plate in front of him. After a moment, he lifted out a long, squirming caterpillar. Irina gulped.

"But it's so… _fuzzy_," she pointed out, poking the bug with her index finger while Monet held it in the air. "And _alive_," she added when it moved to crawl onto her finger. "How can you bear to eat it?"

"It takes practice and nerves of steel," Monet shrugged nonchalantly. "If you want to postpone our lessons, you know, that's perfectly alright-"

"No. You will teach me how to be a good Cahill. We have a deal. Why do you not want to teach me?"

Monet sighed. "That we do. I'm just… afraid that you'll be hurt."

Irina was mildly touched by his concern. However, her offense was much stronger. "Do you not think that I am capable of being a good Cahill?" she asked, extremely insulted. "Do you think that I cannot look after myself? That I am just a child?"

"No! No, of course not!" Monet said hurriedly. "I'm sure that you'll be a fantastic Cahill agent, and I know very well that you can look after yourself and that you are not a child." _Definitely not, _he added internally, his eyes raking ever so briefly over his companion's figure. "I'm just worried that I'm not the best person to teach you, and that this isn't the right time."

"Haven't we been over this?" Irina sighed, running a hand through her blond hair. "We do not know how long we will be stuck in this horrid dungeon. Why not use our time wisely? To train, and keep fit? So our eventual escape will go smoother? There's no time like the present, as you Americans say."

"We're in a _cell_, Irina. It's incredibly unsafe to practice fighting without the proper equipment; you should know that."

"It's incredibly unsafe to fight in the real world, too!" the Lucian snapped. "Training here will only give me more practice for that!"

"…I must admit, you have a point. Even so, I do not think that I will be a good teacher-"

"Why not? You are a skilled, experienced agent; you said it yourself. Who better for me to learn from? Besides," Irina gestured around the cell, "who else is here who could teach me?"

"Again, you have a very valid point."

"I am well aware of that. Now, will you please just get on with it and teach me how to eat bugs already?"

"…Oh, alright," Monet breathed, sounding worn down. Which, indeed, he was, after his tiring conversation.

Irina's grin was broad, and it lit up her youthful face. "Excellent!"

Monet stuck the caterpillar out and instructed, "First of all, you don't have to eat it alive like this. In these types of situations, it's very easy- if disgusting- to kill the bug. For example, you see the caterpillar's head here?" Irina nodded, and Monet repositioned his fingers on the insect. "You see where my thumb and index finger are now?"

"Of course I do. I am not blind. They are on the bug's neck."

"Exactly. I take it you know how to pinch, Irina?"

"Yes." Irina leaned forward and pinched Monet's arm; he yelped in pain. "See?"

"I didn't need you to demonstrate! That hurt!"

"Oh, don't be a baby! I did not pinch you that hard!"

"Yes, you did! I would know; I'm the one you pinched, after all!"

"Perhaps you have a point," Irina grumbled, choosing her words carefully. She refused to admit that she was wrong. Ever. "You may resume teaching me now."

Monet arched his eyebrows. "You're _giving me permission _to resume teaching you?"

"Yes."

The man shook his head, chuckling under his breath. "Good lord, your social skills need work."

"I will not sit here and be insulted!" Irina exclaimed indignantly. "Are you going to teach me or not?"

"Hold your horses- that's an American saying, by the way," Monet added hastily as Irina adopted a confused expression and opened her mouth. "I'll teach you. Now, pay close attention."

Irina nodded, and peered closely at her companion's fingers. They remained at the same place on the caterpillar: around its neck. "Now, this method kills any insect, whether or not you can find its neck," Monet started. "All you do is make sure that your fingers are firmly in place, and then, you pinch."

Monet looked utterly unfazed as he pinched the poor caterpillar's neck, sending its innards spurting out. Irina, on the other hand, had her hand clapped over her mouth, and her eyes were wide in her green face. Finally, she removed her hand and muttered, her eyes not moving from the bug, "That is the single most disgusting thing I've ever seen."

"Oh," Monet chortled pleasantly, "this is only the beginning. Trust me, life as a Cahill agent will get much, much grosser."

Irina groaned. "Is that supposed to comfort me?"

"No. It's supposed to prepare you. I wouldn't do it if I didn't need to."

"...If you must tell me those kinds of things, then do. Now… how do you eat it?" Irina's eyes drifted back down to the caterpillar's lifeless form.

"Simple. You close your eyes, open your mouth, and put it in before you can really think about it. Then, you chew, and swallow," Monet instructed, and then showed Irina exactly what to do. Once again, there was no change in his facial expression, whereas Irina had to suppress her sudden urge to throw up. "See? Easy," Monet smiled. "Your turn now."

"…_My _turn?"

"Mm-hmm."

"But… can't I try this tomorrow?

"Why not now? After all, there's no time like the present." Monet's eyes glinted mischievously.

"Do not use my own words against me!" Irina snapped angrily. However, her cellmate did, unfortunately have a point. And, since he had used her words, she couldn't very well continue arguing with him- it would essentially be arguing with herself. Or at least, with her logic.

So she gritted her teeth, gulped, and nodded, "Okay. I will eat the bug now."

"Good," Monet grinned. "Now, do exactly what I did. Take a bug out of your food."

Irina took a deep breath and did exactly this. Her bug was long, and had more legs than she could count, but was not a caterpillar, judging by the absence of fuzz. "What is this bug?"

"A centipede, from the looks of it," Monet replied. "Or a millipede. Probably the latter, because it's so long. The only way to be sure would be to count its legs, and I really don't want to waste time doing that. Now, pinch the bug."

Irina cursed internally. She had hoped that she would be able to distract Monet, so he would forget about teaching her to eat bugs and she could put the bug down. Unfortunately, he proved to be more task-oriented than many men she had met before in her life. Her eyes found the head of the poor insect, and the Lucian positioned her fingers around the animal's neck, just as she had seen Monet do. She clenched her jaw determinedly, looked anywhere but at the millipede, and pinched.

Instantly, the insect's cold, liquid innards spurted over Irina's fingers, and she swallowed back a baby barf. "See? Was that really so hard?" Monet asked, his voice kind. When Irina didn't respond, he went on, "You'll get used to it. Once you've been doing it for awhile, it's just as easy as licking an ice cream cone. Now, are you ready to eat the bug, or do you want a few more moments to regain your composure?"

"A few moments, please," Irina choked out. Monet nodded understandingly as Irina took a few deep breaths, steeling her nerves- and stomach- as much as she could. Then, without giving Monet any sign of warning, she closed her eyes, dropped the dead millipede into her mouth, and swallowed.

Only when she found herself unable to take a breath did she realize that she had forgotten to chew.

Her eyes popped out of her head in terror, and she placed her hands over her neck, signaling to Monet that she was choking. He instantly sprang up, lifted her to her feet, and put his arms around her from behind. Clenching his fists together, he pounded his hands into Irina's stomach until, finally, the millipede flew out of her mouth, hitting the wall on the other side of the cell.

Monet let go of Irina quickly- he wouldn't put it past her to be angry at him for touching her, even if it was to save her life- but stayed by her side, surveying her face carefully. She was breathing heavily; her face was red, though it was slowly paling, and her eyes were staring straight at the millipede, wide and unblinking.

"Irina?" Monet began, hesitantly touching her arm. "Are you alright?"

Slowly, the Lucian turned to face him. For a few seconds, she just stared at him. Then, she stated, "You saved my life."

"Yes."

"…Thank you," the woman forced out, a bit reluctantly.

"You're welcome," Monet responded, smiling. He had seen how much effort those two words had cost Irina; it was so obvious, it was almost comical, really.

"You crossed the line, you know," Irina pointed out. At Monet's befuddled expression, she pointed down at the floor. "The line. The one that we drew when I first arrived, diving the cell into our two parts."

"Oh. Right," Monet spoke. "It was an emergency. I hope you'll forgive me."

Irina cracked a smile and joked, "Just this once." Monet threw his head back and laughed, his electric blue eyes alight with good humor. After a moment, Irina joined in, and the two Cahills found themselves laughing together as if they were old friends at a party, not recent acquaintances in a dungeon.

"So…" Monet began once the two finally stopped giggling, his eyes still glinting with mirth. "I take it that's enough for today?"

"Of course not!" Irina exclaimed. "I have to eat the millipede now!"

"But you _choked_! Don't you think it would be safer to-"

"What about being a Cahill is safe? Almost nothing, from what I have heard. Besides, I do not fail. I will eat the bug this time," Irina declared with a determination that Monet had to admire.

"If you're sure… just take a new bug this time. The millipede fell in a pile of dust," Monet requested. Irina nodded her compliance, picked a new bug out of the pile- this one, a centipede- and did exactly what she had before.

Except this time, she chewed before she swallowed.

"I told you so," Irina smirked triumphantly.

"Spoken like a true Lucian," Monet replied, grinning proudly as he clapped for his companion's success. "A job well done."

"Yes, it was."

"…You're never going to thank me again no matter what I do, will you?"

"No. No I am not."

_**Sorry it's been so long since I updated! I hope that you liked this chapter! Now, I have a question: do you think I should delete the prologue? The way I see it, if I did, then people who read this story afterwards would find more mystery, and might like the story more. This would involve some chapter editing as well. So, what do you think? Should I do it or not? You can tell me in a review. Speaking of which, PLEASE review! I'd like to have at least three before I update again, simply because I want to know that readers think my story is worth continuing!**_

**_Thank you so much for reading (and hopefully reviewing)!_**

**_-Joelle8_**


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Irina had only known Monet for a short time. And, in truth, most of the ideas that had been formed in their cell had belonged to her. Nonetheless, when Monet woke up one morning and proudly (not to mention loudly) announced that he had an idea, Irina felt a strange sense of impending doom creep upon her.

"No," she told him, crossing her arms stubbornly.

"Why not?" Monet whined, sounding very much like he was five years old. The pout on his face made Irina want to burst out laughing- and, she was sure, her old, carefree self would have, without a doubt. Her new Lucian self, however, had to maintain composure and a good poker face; and so, she did.

"I do not trust your ideas," Irina replied swiftly, her voice emotionless.

"You haven't even heard it yet! Won't you at least let me tell you my idea before you go writing it off?"

The Lucian woman sighed, biting her lip, thinking it over. She was really growing to hate her cellmate. Did he _have _to be right all the time? "Fine. Tell me, then," she finally ordered, her eyes nearly black in the cell's practically nonexistent lighting.

His eyes bouncing with excitement, Monet declared, "We should play Truth or Truth!"

Irina frowned, cocking her head to the side and raising an eyebrow all at once. "What is this 'Truth or Truth' you speak of? I have not heard of it."

"You know Truth or Dare?"

"No."

"Oh… well, this'll take some explaining then."

"I'm- how do you Americans say it?- all ears."

Monet chuckled at Irina's words, and then proceeded to explain. "Truth or Dare is really simple. In our case, the game has two people; let's pretend, for now, that their names are A and B. First, A asks B, 'Truth or dare?' If B picks Truth, then she has to answer a question about herself, as chosen by A; but if B picks Dare, then she has to do a dare of A's choosing. Once B has answered her question or done her dare, she then asks A, 'Truth or dare?' and the game goes on and on and on."

"It seems simple enough," Irina muttered, her head still cocked to the side as she puzzled over what Monet had just told her. "What is Truth or Truth?"

"Truth or Truth is the same thing as Truth or Dare, except without the Dare part. Instead, both players have to answer a question about themselves, as chosen by the other player."

"What is the point? How will it help either of us in escaping?"

"Well, for one, it will help us get to know each other better. That way, when the time comes to escape, we'll be able to communicate more efficiently, and get out faster." Monet had chosen his words carefully, making sure not to show any evidence of his real reason for wanting to play the game: He just wanted to get to know Irina better. They were going to be stuck together for awhile, after all.

Irina thought about the game for a few moments before stating, "I will play as long as neither of us mentions anything about the thirty-nine clues or our branches; or, really, anything involving Cahill life."

"Fair enough," Monet agreed instantly, actually thankful that Irina had thought up the rule (though he shouldn't have been all that surprised, since she was a cunning Lucian, after all). He would rather not have his most vital secrets, the ones he had kept for twenty-five years, be revealed to someone he had only known for a week.

"Alright. Which one of us should ask first?"

"I'll go," Monet offered eagerly, and then hastily added, "If you don't want to, that is," to make it look less suspicious.

"Be my guest."

"Great. So… how long were you a pole-vaulter?"

"I began training when I was seven years old. I won my first competition when I was ten. My career ended when I turned sixteen." Irina could tell that, judging by the look on his face, Monet wanted to know why she stopped being a pole-vaulter; however, she wasn't about to tell him about being recruited by the KGB. Some things just weren't made to be told. "It is my turn to ask you something now, no?"

"Correct."

"Good… do you have any siblings, and do you get along with them?"

"I have two older sisters," Monet replied immediately, taking care not to mention who those sisters were. Irina probably wouldn't recognize Beatrice's name; however, it was almost inevitable that she would recognize Grace's, since Grace played such a big role in the clue hunt. Isabel Kabra definitely would have told Irina about their most powerful enemy. "One of them practically raised me- she's twelve years my senior, after all- and the other… well, truth be told, we never got on all that well." _Understatement of the century, _he added in his head grimly.

"Interesting," Irina said blandly, though in truth, she didn't care all that much about Monet's siblings, and couldn't for the life of her see the point of this game. "You may ask me something now."

"Do you have any pets?"

"Not currently. I once had a parrot; his name was Andre." The Lucian smiled fondly at the memory of her beloved bird. It had been so colorful and lively, it's odd antics making Irina laugh in the most stressful of times. She had always liked to envision herself as a bird, so she could just flap her wings and soar high into the air, away from all of her problems and be free to fly with the wind.

"I think everyone's felt that way at least once in their life," Monet remarked, and only then did Irina realize that she had spoken her thoughts out loud. She blushed deep red, but Monet kindly deigned to mention her obvious embarrassment, instead pointing out, "You get to ask me a question now, you know."

"Do you like children?" Irina found herself asking without even thinking about it.

"…I have nothing against them," Monet replied slowly, pondering Irina's question. In truth, he hadn't really thought about it before. "I haven't really met that many children in my lifetime, to be honest. The ones I have met, though, are nothing short of wonderful. I have a niece; from what I've heard of her, if I were to ever become a father, I would want my child to be just like her."

"From what you have heard?" Irina frowned. "Do you not know your own niece?" Monet shook his head; the Lucian, puzzled, asked him, "Why do you not know her?"

Monet sighed and decided to tell his cellmate the truth… as long as he left out some details, of course. "I'm supposedly dead," he admitted. "Only a select few people know the truth."

"Why do people think you are dead?"

"…As I've already told you, Irina, the life of a Cahill is never an easy one. It is harder for some than it is for others. Sometimes, sacrifices must be made." Monet took a deep breath, and with a note of finality of his voice, continued, "Now, I believe that you have already asked me fourquestions, only one of which it was your turn to ask; therefore, I am entitled to asking you the one question I was supposed to have asked three turns ago, as well as three extras."

And so, Monet and Irina continued playing Truth or Truth for about an hour, talking about hobbies (Monet's was painting, while Irina's, strangely enough, was knitting), foods (Monet's favorite was fried chicken; Irina's was pirozhki, a small type of Russian pie with a cooked filling), and other meaningless topics. All the while, though, Irina was wondering what secrets Monet's past and life held, and Monet was wondering if maybe, despite all of the care and caution he had practiced since he was twenty-one years old, he had said too much.

_**It's short, I know, I know! I'm having a bit of a writer's block; I know what's going to happen in the end and one other scene (which I will not reveal to you), but besides that, I'm stuck! If you have any suggestions, then PLEASE tell me in a review! Speaking of reviews, I'd like to have three of them before I update again, please!**_

**_Anyways, thanks for reading! I hope you liked it!_**

**_-Joelle8_**

**_P.S. In case you're wondering, I'm not going to delete my prologue. Thanks to everyone who gave me their opinions on that!_**


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"I. Want. To. Fight."

"No. Absolutely not."

"Oh? And why is that? You've beaten me in Insect Eating, Doctoring, and Disguise. I've beaten you in Decoding and Stealth. It's only fair that I match your score," Irina countered.

"How do you know that you would beat me? Hmm? Irina, I've been trained by the best in my branch-"

"Which is?"

"-And I highly doubt that you, a mere amateur, could beat me. No offense," Monet went on as if Irina had never interrupted him.

"I am a natural born athlete, Monet. If I can beat you at anything, it is fighting."

"Pole vaulting is very differing from fighting, Irina; there's a reason they're two separate sports-"

"Please, Monet," Irina cut him off. "Let me at least try!"

Monet sighed. He couldn't say no to Irina's wide brown eyes in that puppy face that was much too will-bending for her own good. "Oh, alright."

"Yes! Thank you!" Irina exclaimed, flinging her arms around Monet. "I will not let you down!"

"I'm sure you won't," Monet muttered, making sure not to hug Irina too close to him. Her worn out clothes were already thin enough.

The two let go of each other and stepped back, wearing very different expressions. Irina's was one of excitement and anticipation; to put it plainly, Monet just wanted it all to be over.

"Okay," he began, "first, we have to stretch."

"Stretch?" Irina raised an eyebrow. "We will not have time to stretch before actual battles, Monet! Why do we stretch now?"

"Because this _isn't _an actual battle, Irina, in case you haven't noticed," Monet snapped. "We're just practicing, and in practice, you should _always _stretch first. And afterwards, too, actually. It helps loosen up your muscles, so you can fight well on short notice. And trust me," Monet added grimly, "fighting at short notice is what we Cahills do."

Irina sighed as if frustrated, but there was a mischievous glint in her eye. "Does that mean that, once we escape, I should practice fighting every day?"

"Of course!" Monet exclaimed. "Why would you ask a silly question like that? The more you practice, the better you get. 'Practice makes perfect', as us Americans say."

"That is not true," Irina disagreed, shaking her head. "You Americans are silly. Practice does not make perfect."

"Oh?" Monet raised an eyebrow. "And why do you say that?"

"It is simple," Irina began. "There is no such thing as perfect, true?"

"True," Monet nodded.

"So if there is no such thing as perfect, how can practice make perfect?" Irina reasoned. "It makes no sense!"

Monet sighed, rubbing his fingers in circles on his temples. "Never again," he started, "will  
I underestimate a Lucian's sense of logic."

Irina smirked. "That was my goal. Now, we fight?"

"Nice try. Now we stretch."

XxxxxxX

Approximately seven minutes later, both Monet and Irina were all stretched out, more than ready to start fighting. A reluctant Monet cracked his neck one last time (it was totally painless, despite Irina's concerned protests) and faced the young Lucian agent. His usually merry blue eyes were hard and cold; Irina couldn't help feeling like she would never, under any circumstances, want to meet him in an actual battle. For good reason, of course. If he took practice this seriously…

"Okay," Monet started. "What do you want me to teach you first?"

Irina shrugged. "I do not know! You are the one teaching me; shouldn't you know what to teach?"

"Hey, I'm only teaching you this because you begged me to-"

"I did not _beg_; I am not a dog."

"-if you actually want me to teach you at all, you'd best not criticize me," Monet went on, acting as though Irina had never interrupted. "So, what do you want me to teach you?"

"Moves," Irina decided. "Teach me moves."

"Offensive moves or defensive moves?" Monet asked. "Personally, I recommend defensive. If you work the moves right, then you can survive a whole fight by just using defense."

"Defensive moves, then," Irina stated. "Teach me those."

Despite his serious, slightly crabby demeanor, Monet chuckled. "You're not at all demanding, are you?"

"No, I am not, and I do not appreciate your- what is it called?- ah, yes. Sarcasm." Irina scowled at her cellmate. "Teach me now."

"You're _sure _you want to do this?"

"Of course I am sure!" Irina exclaimed. "Have I not made that clear already?"

"Yes, you have, I just wanted to make sure," Monet mumbled. "Now, we'll start with what I call the Kangaroo."

"The Kangaroo? Why is it called the Kangaroo?"

"Have you ever seen footage of a Kangaroo jumping?" Monet inquired. Irina nodded. "Well, the way they jump, they slam their feet into the ground. In this move, you do something similar- instead of slamming your feet into the ground, however, you slam your feet into your opponent."

Irina's eyes were sparkling with eagerness, but she fought to keep her composure and hold it in. "It sounds wonderful," she said. "You teach it to me now?"

"Yes," Monet replied. "Let's pretend that someone's running at you. You jump up, positioning yourself so that you're horizontal in the air, and kick out your legs. When you kick out your legs, make sure that your feet are flat, and that they're in line with the chest of your opponent."

"Why the chest?"

"You can get the most solid blow there. Plus, you can 'knock the wind out of him' that way; then, he'll take longer to get back up, and you'll have more time to either deliver another blow or get away," Monet explained. "Make sense?"

"Yes."

"Good. Shall I go on now?"

"Please do."

"Okay. Well, that's basically how you do the move; it's simple enough, once you get the hang of it. The difficult part is the landing," Monet spoke. "You have to make sure you don't land on your back, otherwise you could seriously injure yourself, as well as give your opponent an easy opportunity to kill you."

"I do not want that."

"I doubt anyone would," Monet chortled. "To prevent that, you have to land a specific way that requires a good amount of arm and leg strength, in addition to good coordination in the air. Whilst you kick your opponent, you should be turning in midair so that your stomach ends up facing the ground. Then, your landing should be a bit catlike. Make sure that your arms and legs are outstretched towards the ground, and when you land, catch yourself. Using your arms, push yourself back up as fast as you can so you can make it back to your opponent quickly. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly," Irina nodded. Monet fought back a smirk.

"I thought there was no such thing as perfect?"

"Do not use my own words against me!" Irina snapped. "I will not stand for it!"

"Calm down, Irina, I'm just joking around," Monet assured his companion. "Back to the lesson, I guess. Would you like me to demonstrate the move to you?"

"Yes, please," Irina answered rather stiffly. She was still sour over her words being used against her.

"Very well. So as not to injure you, I will pretend that the wall is my opponent for the time being," Monet said. "Once you have practiced the move a few times, and have mastered it, then we will practice on each other."

Not wasting another second after speaking those words, Monet demonstrated the Kangaroo. Irina could only stare in awe at the grace and power he exhibited. His blow to the wall pushed himself back, and yet, he still managed to land without causing himself an injury. When he rose, he looked at Irina, and seemed to grow smug thanks to the look that she instantly wiped off her face.

"You try now," Monet ordered. "Practice against the wall, like I did. Ready… go!"

Irina sucked in her breath, glared at the wall determinedly, and jumped high into the air. Her legs shot out as her body turned horizontal in the air, and she kicked the wall with all the force she could muster. She flipped over in midair and extended her limbs, just barely catching herself before she hit the ground. The Lucian took a few deep breaths and then stood up, facing Monet, her head held up high in triumph.

She didn't even have to ask if she had done well.

"Wow," Monet blinked rapidly. "That was… wow. Without a doubt, the best Kangaroo move I have seen carried out on the first try. There are a few points you could work on: flip in the air earlier, and when you land, get up immediately afterwards. In a real fight, you can't afford to spend a second hesitating about anything. Try the move on the wall two more times; then you can practice on me."

Irina nodded, and carried out the Kangaroo move as well as Monet could have hoped for. The next time, she did it just as well, if not better. Though Monet knew that her success was probably more due to her natural athletic ability than it was to his teaching, he still couldn't help beaming with pride.

"Excellent!" he exclaimed. "Now, you'll practice on me. I'm going to run at you as fast as I can; do to me exactly what you did to the wall. Okay?"

"Okay," Irina nodded. "I understand."

"Good. Ready?"

"Yes."

"Alright. One… two… three!"

Monet began running towards Irina, only taking a few seconds to cross from his side of the cell to hers. He was right within just the right kicking distance when Irina made a terrible mistake.

She closed her eyes.

The truth was, she honestly didn't _want _to hurt Monet. Sure, this was just practice, but she considered him a friend of sorts, however different he was from her. She knew that she had to kick him, though; but she didn't want to see it.

So when she jumped into the air and her legs shot out, they missed Monet completely, and she was so disoriented from this that she forgot to turn in the air, and she landed on her flat on her back.

"Irina!" Monet rushed right to the woman's side, his blue eyes wide in horror. He knelt beside her head and put two fingers to her neck. Thankfully, he felt a pulse- a strong one at that- and Irina groaned, though her brown eyes stayed closed.

"I'm going to help you sit up, Irina," Monet told the Lucian after breathing a sigh of heavy relief. He gently slid his hand under the middle of Irina's back; she winced as he did so. Making sure that his touches were light, Monet slowly pushed Irina up to a sitting position, his other hand on her shoulder to keep her balanced.

He was in the middle of doing this, ever so carefully, when Irina's eyes blinked open. A good, old fashioned Russian curse was about to leave her lips, when suddenly… she stopped.

It was a silly thing for her to focus on at a time like this, but Monet was very, very close to her. She could make out each of the tiny scars on his face, could see the different shades of blue in his bright eyes, could reach out and touch his unshaven chin if she really wanted to. Her breath hitched in her throat as a flood of new, unfamiliar feelings swelled up inside of her.

Little did she know, the exact same thing was happening to Monet at that moment.

_She's twenty-one years younger than you, _he reminded himself. _You're old enough to be her father._

He let this thought wash through him as he stared into Irina's deep, dark eyes. Finally, he cleared his throat, finished helping Irina sit up, and moved away so that he sat beside her, keeping his hand on the small of her back to help her stay seated.

"A-Are you okay?" Fiske asked, inwardly cursing the stutter that came up whenever he got nervous.

"Yes," Irina replied, her voice awfully small, her cheeks red. "I expect that I will have a bruise in the morning, though."

"I-I don't doubt it," Monet remarked. "That w-was quite a fall you took."

"It will get better soon," Irina shrugged nonchalantly. "Will you help me stand up please?"

"Of course," Monet said, gingerly lifting the woman to her feet. She held onto his arm as she slowly made her way over to her stiff, tiny bed, hating how weak she was at the moment. Monet laid her down on the bed and asked quietly, "I take it you want to rest now?"

"I would like to sleep," Irina responded. "Sleep sounds very, very good right now." She rolled onto her side. "As long as it is not on my back."

Monet smiled at her and told her, "Just tell me if you need anything. I'll be on my side of the cell, okay?"

"Okay," Irina nodded, a small smile on her lips. Monet smiled back and turned around, walking to his own bed, when Irina called out, "Wait!"

"What is it?" he asked quickly, turning around, concerned.

Irina gulped. "Thank you," she said. Monet's smile grew.

"I thought you said that you wouldn't thank me ever again, no matter what I did?" His eyebrow arched amusedly.

"Yes, well, I am a Lucian," Irina pointed out. "Lying is in my blood. Besides… you deserved it."

"Yes. Yes I did."

"Oh, stop looking so smug."

Monet just grinned.

_**I am soooooooooo sorry that it took me so long to update! I came down with a terrible disease: WRITER'S BLOCK. (Dun dun duuuuuuuun!) But now, I've gotten over it! For the time being, at least. I'm really busy right now, though, so I'm not sure when my next update will be.**_

**_Thanks for reading, and please review! I'd like to have at least 3 before I update again!_**

**_-Joelle8_**


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Okay," Monet began, his voice stern. It went along very well with his arms crossed and his narrowed eyes. "We've fought every day, morning and night, for the past two weeks. Today, we're taking a break."

"Oh, don't be such a- what do you Americans say? Ah, yes- a baby!" Irina protested, rolling her eyes. "You just do not want to fight me because I always beat you-"

"That's not true!" Monet contradicted truthfully. She didn't _always _beat him; just nine times out of ten. Really, it was just plain embarrassing at this point that he was continually beaten by a rookie. "I refuse to do any fighting today, and that. Is. Final!"

"Sounds like you're fighting to me," the smug voice of the Janus guard cut in as he swaggered up to their cell. A smirk was firmly planted on his less-than-pleasant features. "The leader'll be pleased, at least. She loves it when cellmates don't get along. Which, generally, they don't. I have to admit, though…" he chuckled lightly. "I've never heard about people fighting over whether or not they should fight before."

Irina glared at him, choosing to do that instead of rolling her eyes. Honestly, this man- if he could even be called that- was the most vile, stupid creature she had ever had the misfortune to lay her eyes on. "We do not care for your company," she snapped, directing her irritation at Monet towards the guard. "Leave us alone!"

The guard raised an eyebrow. "Princess, in case you haven't noticed, you're locked up in a cell. And _I _have the keys. Now, let's see, who should be ordering who around here?"

"_Princess? _How dare you-"

"First off, you moronic fool, _you _don't have the keys, your leader does," Monet interjected calmly; he really didn't want his cellmate to get herself into too big of a pickle. "Second, in all manners- maturity, intelligence, skills- Irina is your superior. So, really, I think that Irina is, indeed, the one who should be doing the ordering around here."

The guard growled, showing his yellow teeth. "You'll pay for that, Unidentified Cahill. Mark my words, you will." His dark eyes drifted over to Irina, and he sneered, "Princess here will, too."

To the guard's great surprise, he found himself grabbed by the collar of his shirt and roughly pulled up against the cell bars, his head banging against them with a loud clang. "Listen here, you miserable excuse for a Cahill," Irina hissed, "I am Irina Spaskaya. I am a champion pole-vaulter, a top-level fighter, a certified KGB agent, an Oxford graduate, and a Lucian. You will _not _use such a degrading term as _Princess _with me. Understood?"

The guard mumbled something that was barely discernible, but sounded like it rhymed with "witch". Irina pulled him harder against the cell bars.

"_Understood_?"

"Understood," the guard grumbled back, sounding disoriented from hitting his head against the cell. Irina, seeming satisfied, pushed the guard back to the opposite wall, letting go of him. He stumbled a bit, his hand on his head; after a few moments, he gathered himself together and glared at Irina fiercely. "I think," he spat, "that the leader will want to know about your _insolence_, Princess."

With that, he walked straight off in the other direction, blatantly ignoring the Russian curses that Irina screamed after him.

"Irina. Irina! _Irina!_" Monet grabbed his companion's shoulders in an attempt to get her attention and turned her to face him. Her stared her straight in the eye, his gaze firm, and slowly said, "Calm down."

"Calm down?" Irina repeated quietly, as if she didn't believe that she had heard her cellmate right. Monet nodded that, yes, that was what he said.

And then, the meltdown came.

"CALM DOWN? _CALM DOWN? _HE THINKS THAT HE IS BETTER THAN ME! THAT HE CAN DO WHATEVER HE WANTS TO ME, AND I WILL BE UNABLE TO STOP HIM! IT IS NOT TRUE, AND I MUST PROVE IT! _I AM NO PRINCESS!_"

"Breathe, Irina, breathe!" Monet exclaimed fervently, still gripping her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. "Just take a deep breath. In… and out. Good. In… and out."

Irina's eyes, nearly black with anger, were closed as she breathed. _In… and out. In… and out. _Monet's soothing voice floated through her mind as, ever so slowly, her anger subsided, giving way to embarrassment.

"I am sorry," she finally said, so quietly that Monet had to strain to hear her. "I should not have… 'blown up' like that, as some would put it."

"You had every right to be angry at that miserable excuse for a human being," Monet told his companion honestly. "But you're right; you shouldn't have blown up like that. Part of being a Cahill is being able to control emotions. Do you know why, Irina?"

"No," Irina shook her head, a bit confused.

"It's because emotions are your biggest weakness," Monet explained. "If an opponent knows your emotions, then he or she can all-too-easily use them against you. They can use your emotions to manipulate you; they can use them to make you surrender; they can use them as threats; they can use them for any number of things, Irina. That is why, if you truly want to be a top Cahill agent, then you have to be able to control, if not conceal, your emotions."

"That makes sense," Irina said. "Can we practice that today?"

"Practice controlling emotions, you mean?"

"Of course. What did you think I meant to practice? Baking?" Irina snorted. Monet chuckled.

"Alright," he agreed, "but this means that we can't practice fighting, and you have to stop nagging me about that. Deal?"

"Deal," Irina nodded after a pause. _After all, I could always fight some other day, _she reasoned internally.

"Good," Monet sighed with relief. Then, his expression contorted into one of thoughtfulness as he mused, "Now, how do I teach a person to control their emotions… and which emotion to start with?" Irina remained silent; Monet was thankful for this, as it helped him think better. He finally came up with an idea, though he was rather reluctant to use it; however, considering the circumstances, it was really the only doable way.

"You have an idea yet?" Irina asked. Monet nearly jumped, startled that she had, it seemed, read his mind.

"Yes," Monet answered. "But… you have to promise me that you'll forgive me for everything I say. Alright?"

"Alright. What is this idea you have?"

"Well…" Monet began, thinking of how best to explain it. "I was thinking that, for this first lesson, I'd teach you how to control your anger, since that's your most dangerous emotion. My idea is that, to make you angry, I have to say some not-so-nice things to you, and you have to do your best not to react to them."

"And if I do react to what to say?" Irina inquired. "What then?"

"Then I use new insults to anger you. We'll repeat it over and over until you can keep a poker face."

"What is this 'poker face' you speak of?" Irina frowned in confusion. "How do I acquire it?"

Monet bit his lip to keep from laughing. "It's an American term, Irina. Keeping a poker face really just means that you keep your face expressionless."

"Stupid American terms," Irina grumbled heatedly under her breath. Oh, did she ever hate not knowing something. Louder, so that Monet could hear her, she said, "I understand."

"Good," Monet said. "Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Remember, I don't mean a single word I'm going to say, even if it seems like it."

"Okay."

"Keep in mind, I'm doing this purely for the sake of getting you angry, not because I have anything against you whatsoever-"

"Monet!" Irina cut in. "Do not worry, I understand. You may start now. I am ready."

"Okay," Monet nodded, with an apologetic look on his face.

And then, he broke out his acting skills.

"You filthy little girl," he spat, his eyes narrowed. "How could you think that you're of any worth to anyone? You mean nothing. _Nothing_." He inwardly cringed at the necessary harshness in his voice and the hurt look in Irina's eyes. "Nobody cares for you. Not your so-called friends, not your family, _nobody_. You're useless. Worthless. You're a complete and utter failure in every single thing you do- and you know it, don't you? Don't you?"

He paused, carefully examining Irina's figure. Her face was flushed with clear anger; her clenched fists were shaking at her sides; her narrowed eyes were too dark to be called brown anymore. Monet shook his head. "That's not keeping a poker face, Irina."

"How do you expect me to keep a 'poker face', as you call it, when you use those words with me?" Irina snapped incredulously, looking as angry as ever. "It is impossible."

"No, it's not," Monet objected. "I can do it, and so can billions of other people in the world, Cahills or not. I once met a little Nigerian girl who could keep a perfect poker face, Irina; if she can do it, then so can you." This was an utter lie; he had never even been to Nigeria. But he knew that Irina wanted to win, to succeed, more than anything in the world; ambition ruled her life. He knew that comparing her to a mere child would spur her to do her very best- and, as a result, to succeed immediately.

Her reaction was exactly what Monet expected.

"I am more skilled than a child!" Irina exclaimed, as if she had been insulted. "I can do a poker face! I will prove it! I am ready!" She took a deep breath, steeling her nerves and her willpower. "Anger me now."

Monet did as he was told.

"The only beings that you're superior of are sewer rats," he sneered. "Everything else is so much better than you that they don't even waste their time knowing your name. Hell, they don't even waste their time knowing that you _exist_. You're nothing but a miserable speck of dust to them; you're as dispensable as they come. More than anything else, everyone wants you gone. They wish that you didn't exist. Your companions, your father, your mother, your siblings-"

Suddenly, Monet felt himself pressed against the cold stone wall of the dungeon, a soft, strong hand clutching his throat. Irina's eyes bugged out of her head; her breathing was heavy, and she madder than a bull entering a bullfight.

"Don't," she hissed, "you _dare _talk about my siblings. Don't. You. _Dare_."

Monet nodded helplessly, barely managing to choke out, "Didn't- mean- it. Practicing. Remember?"

Irina dropped him like his skin was acidic. She looked horrified; not to mention embarrassed (for the second time that night!) and very, very apologetic.

"I am sorry, Monet," she breathed, looking down at the ground guiltily as he massaged his throat. "I- I do not like it when my sibling is brought up in conversations. It is a… sensitive topic."

"Obviously," Monet muttered. "If you don't mind me asking, why is it such a sensitive topic?"

Irina was silent for a minute before replying, "I have- had- a younger brother. His name was Nikolai; he and I were close. Very close." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "He was the one who introduced me to pole-vaulting; he had gone to a tournament with a friend of his, and he said that it looked like a sport I might like. He was right… as usual."

The Lucian paused, looking frail and broken and just plain sorrowful. It broke Monet's heart to see it. "Then," Irina went on, "I joined the KGB. In the KGB, we were not allowed to have contact with our family. So, during the years that I trained, Nikolai and I had no contact. The day that I was allowed to go home, the first thing I did was go to Nikolai's room…"

She choked back a sob, one single tear escaping from under her eyelids. "There was a rope around his neck… he was hung on the ceiling fan. He was dead."

The woman burst into tears, bawling like her life depended on it as she sunk to the ground. Slowly, hesitantly, Monet knelt beside her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, squeezing her closer to him. "I'm so sorry, Irina," he murmured. "I'm so, so sorry."

Irina didn't respond, so Monet kept talking. "I don't know what I'd do without my older sister- the nice one. She practically raised me; my parents were never around much when I was a kid, admittedly. I love Grace more than anything."

"Grace?" Irina sniffled, looking up curiously, her eyes red and puffy. "Your sister's name is Grace?"

Monet froze. _Calm down, Fiske, _he told himself, inwardly panicking. _Maybe she doesn't know who Grace is. Calm down._ _It was just one slip-up._

_Yeah, one slip-up after twenty-five years of caution that could get me stuck in a Lucian dungeon for the rest of my life after I get out of this hellhole, _he snapped in his head.

_Don't show emotion. Then she'll really suspect something. Control yourself._

Taking a deep breath, Monet nodded, "Yes. Her name is Grace."

Irina sat up, thinking hard. Isabel had told her about someone named Grace; according to her, Grace Cahill was their biggest competition in the hunt for the thirty-nine clues. But Grace only had an older sister, Beatrice; she didn't have a brother. If she did, then the Lucians would know.

Wouldn't they?

_Of course they would. Don't go underestimating the intelligence of your own branch, _Irina chided herself. _Just because Monet's older sister is named Grace does not mean that she is Grace Cahill._

"That is… cool," Irina settled on saying, her tears dried on her face.

"Yeah," Monet smiled, beyond relieved that Irina seemed to not have figured out the identity of his sister- and, by extension, him. "I'm thinking that we should both get some rest now. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Irina nodded, and Monet- almost unwillingly- took his arm off her. The two stood up and stared at each other.

"I am sorry," Monet repeated. "And Irina… it wasn't your fault that Nikolai… you know."

Irina's face clouded over. "It may or may not have been my fault, but he was closest to me out of everyone. I should have been there to stop him."

"Don't blame yourself, Irina," Monet said. "You did nothing wrong. Nikolai had his reasons; he wouldn't have done it if he wasn't completely sure of his decision. He was a smart boy."

Irina looked at him suspiciously. "You speak as if you knew my brother. Do you?"

"No," Monet responded, "but I figure that if he was your brother, then he must have been smart."

To his surprise, Irina smirked, looking almost amused. "Watch your words, Monet," she cautioned. "Otherwise, I might think that you were just flirting with me." She walked over to her bed and lay down, falling down almost immediately. Monet remained standing there for a moment, looking at her peaceful figure, before he lay down on his own bed.

"Maybe I was," he mumbled, just barely louder than a breath, before letting sleep overtake him.

_**Hmm... I actually rather like this chapter. What do YOU think? Please review!**_

**_-Joelle8_**

**_P.S. I am SOOOOOOOOOOO sorry for taking so long to update! My life has been so, so, so hectic; I've been super busy! Feel free to throw rotten vegetables at me!_**


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"Get up."

Silence.

"I _said_, get. Up." The man kicked Irina's ribs, anything but gentle. She winced, emitting a small hiss of pain. However, as groggy as she was from just being woken up, she remained lying down, her senses befuddled.

"Go away, Monet," she ordered, her voice soft, but somehow still forceful. "And do not _dare _kick me again, or else I will kick you where it counts."

The man snorted gruffly and kicked Irina again. "I'm not Monet, _Princess_."

Irina sat up like a rocket, her eyes flying open to see the guard, his dark eyes narrowed and leering at her. She glanced at the cell door; unfortunately, the guard had remembered to lock it.

"What are you doing in here?" she asked him, glaring at him with all her might. To her imperceptible glee, he flinched.

"The leader wants to see you. "

"Why?"

"She thinks that you've been up to less-than-satisfactory activity during your stay here."

Irina sneered. "I do not care what your oh-so-precious leader thinks."

The guard growled and slapped her. Irina staggered backwards from the force of it, her hand flying up to her red, stinging cheek. Stunned speechless, she just stared at the guard. She had known him to be a violent barbarian- he had proved that when he had captured her- but for him to just slap her like this, just for insulting Cora Wizard…

_I know that she is his branch leader, _Irina thought, _but it is still unusual for a guard to be _so _loyal to her… _Frowning now, Irina looked up into the guard's dark eyes. There was fury in there, but there was also something else-

_Oh._

Suddenly, she knew.

"You love her, don't you?" Irina asked softly, her hand falling from her cheek. "You love Cora Wizard." _And she just got married, _she added in her head. _No wonder he's so angry._

The guard responded with a glare and slapped her again. "How- how dare you accuse me of such a thing!" he stammered, clearly unnerved. Irina just smiled.

"For a Janus," she remarked, "you are a terrible actor."

Yet another slap sounded in the dungeon; this one harder and louder than before. Irina stumbled and fell back down onto her bed, clutching her aching, bruising cheek.

"Why are _you _in here?" Monet, it seemed, had been awoken by the sound of the guard slapping Irina, and was now glaring at him with the utmost loathing. Irina couldn't help but feel a bit flattered that he cared so much.

"I'm taking your little friend here to see the leader," the guard replied with a smirk, jerking his head down towards Irina. "I told her about _Princess'_ insolence. So she decided to review the tapes from the last few days."

Monet's blood ran cold; and, from the sudden paleness of Irina's skin, he was guessing that she was panicking inside, too. _Hidden cameras! Why didn't I think to check for them? _He cursed internally. _Now Cora will know about me and Irina's lessons, and she'll put us in different cells- actually, knowing her, she'll do something worse!_

"What're you thinking, Unidentified Cahill?" The guard scrutinized Monet. "Do you wanna come see the leader, too?"

"Yes, I do," Monet said calmly, making a split second decision. Irina's eyes widened frantically from behind the surprised guard.

"Oh, you do, do you? Well, I'm sure that the leader won't complain," he sneered. "Come here, Unidentified." He gestured to Monet to walk over to him; the prisoner did so without a second of hesitation.

The guard pulled a set of handcuffs from out of his back pocket and put them around Monet's wrists, grinning evilly all the while. "That way, you can't run off," he explained, a note of triumph in his voice. "I know what you're thinking, Unidentified; I'm not gonna just let you run off. You can't pull one past _me_." He jerked his thumb towards himself and swore as it hit his eye. Monet and Irina both had to stifle their laughter; the Lucian was less successful than her cellmate.

"You!" The guard pointed at Irina with the hand that wasn't covering his eye. "Get over here! It's your turn now!"

"Do not order me around, you scumbag!" Irina shot back, glaring at the guard, his red handprint still prominent on her otherwise pale face.

"Do you want _another _slap, _Princess_?" The guard retorted angrily. Irina growled, but didn't move from her place. "Maybe hurting your friend here would help convince you…" The guard trailed off, and suddenly, Monet felt an electric shock shoot into his wrists from the handcuffs. He cried out in pain despite his cool façade, his wrists burning.

Mingled horror and terror seeped through Irina as she saw Monet being tortured. She closed her eyes, unable to watch; it just… _hurt_. It hurt her to see him get hurt. "_Stop!_" She cried out, mentally cringing at the desperation in her voice. "Leave him alone!"

"Then come here."

Irina did as she was ordered immediately, obediently letting the guard handcuff her. Monet, having fallen to the ground from the pain, looked up at his cellmate in amazement: Since when had _Irina Spaskaya _ever followed orders?

"I guess you have a weakness after all, Princess," the guard commented, his eyes flashing maliciously as they darted over to Monet, who was standing up, and then back to Irina, who kept one eye on him anxiously. From out of his front pocket, he took out a metal chain that branched off into two smaller chains. He attached one of the smaller chains to Monet's handcuffs, and the other to Irina's; then, as if they were dogs, he led them out of the cell.

"Why are you coming?" Irina hissed to Monet as soon as the guard, who was holding onto their chain, was far enough ahead that he wouldn't hear her. "This is not your business!"

"When it comes to being a Cahill," Monet replied, "in my experience, it's always been better to have back-up then to not. You can thank me later."

"I told you, I will not thank you again.

"You went against that once; how do I know you won't do it again? After all," Monet went on with the barest hint of a grin, "you're a Lucian. Lying is in your blood."

"Stop stealing my words! It is not funny!"

"Sure, Irina. Whatever you say," Monet said with a slight chuckle.

For a few minutes, silence resumed. The guard led Monet and Irina up a long, winding staircase with green carpeting and intricate drawings of the Janus crest on the walls.

"Do they hurt?" Irina asked suddenly, jerking her head towards Monet's wrists so he would know what she meant.

"Yes," he admitted. "It's quite painful to get electrocuted, you know, however minor."

"I apologize for that," Irina murmured, looking down at her feet. "If I had not been so rebellious, then the guard would not have hurt you."

"Don't apologize for having a spirit and showing it," Monet responded, shaking his head. "You were just being you. And you don't like listening to stinky douchbags like our miserable excuse of a guard."

Irina chuckled, and lightly placed her finger on Monet's wrist, ignoring the shiver that the touch sent up her arm. "You are right about that," she smiled, looking up into Monet's blue eyes. "The guard is horrible."

"You wanna repeat that, Princess?" The guard snapped; caught up in their conversation, Irina and Monet hadn't even realized that they had reached their destination: a large, green door with the Janus crest on it. The word "Head" was written in an elegant black script at the top.

Irina's mouth was open, about to reply, "Yes, I would," when the guard's eyes drifted meaningfully over to Monet. Slowly, Irina closed her mouth, settling for just glaring at the smirking guard. The Janus knocked on the door, looking almost nervous all of the sudden, while Monet shot Irina a curious look (she blushed, to her horror, and looked away).

Then, the door opened. A smiling Cora Wizard stood there, wearing a casual- yet stylish- black V-neck shirt, accompanied by navy jeans and a bandana holding back her long, dark hair.

"Hello, Nicolas," she greeted the guard. "Bring in the prisoners."

"Of course, Mrs. Wizard," the guard- Nicolas, apparently- replied, his tone laced with the utmost reverence. He roughly tugged Monet and Irina into the room; Cora smiling at him approvingly, and closed the door behind them, locking all five of the locks.

"Sit down, Nicolas," she told him, gesturing to a stiff wooden chair. "I must ask, what happened to your eye?" She looked at the eye that Nicolas had poked earlier, which was red and swelling slightly.

"The prisoners put up a fight," he told her with a perfectly straight face. "This one here," he gestured toward Monet, "did it. That's why I shocked him."

"I knew that stealing Electronic Handcuffs from the Ekats was a good idea," Cora said, in almost a cheery tone. "Here, Nicolas, let me put on some eye cream, to help with the swelling…" From her desk drawer, she pulled out a small tube of medical cream, and, with the lightest of touches, began rubbing it around Nicolas' eye. He visibly tensed at her touch, then slowly relaxed, grinning broadly. Almost unnoticeably, Cora smirked, and that was when it hit Irina: _She knows what she's doing. _

It was all too obvious that Cora was _making _Nicolas love her. Her mannerisms; her kind words; it was all to make him fall for her- and thereby increase his loyalty and devotion towards her by tenfold.

_It's a strategy that could've come from a Lucian, _Irina admitted grudgingly. She glanced towards Monet; from his partly confused, partly bored, and partly impatient expression, he hadn't known a single thing unusual about how Cora was acting. Irina shook her head in dismay. _Males, _she sighed in her head. _They never notice anything._

After what seemed like hours, Cora finished applying the eye cream on Nicolas. "Now," she began, turning to face Irina and Monet after shooting the guard a smile, "I believe that I only asked for one of you."

"The other one requested to come, Mrs. Wizard," Nicolas interjected immediately. "Originally, I was only going to bring the girl, I promise you-"

"Shh." Cora placed a finger to the guard's lips. "Don't fret, Nicolas. No harm has been done. In fact, this is better; I can question the man now as well."

She took away her finger, and Nicolas nodded blankly, his face as red as a tomato.

"From what Nicolas has told me, you've been misbehaving," Cora said to Irina, wagging her finger at her almost playfully. "Naughty, naughty girl. Of course, I had to check the tapes for myself to see just how much you've been misbehaving. What I saw interested me quite a bit… would you like to see it?"

The Janus leader's gaze turned as cold as stone. Irina and Monet didn't dare answer; they knew that, either way, Cora would show them. Indeed, she continued, "Look at the TV screen behind my desk. It's playing the footage."

Irina and Monet both looked up at the screen and saw… darkness. The camera was barely able to make out anything but the faint outline of two figures. Then, the lights flickered on, and both Irina and Monet came into view on the tape, greeting each other for the first time and dividing up the cell into their separate sections.

Then, they saw themselves first being served the grubs. Even Irina had to laugh at her expression.

Next was what Irina and Monet knew as their first official lesson. First, Monet ate the grub; then, Irina tried to; then, Monet saved her.

Cora paused the footage here.

"I couldn't help but find this interesting," she said, her voice near a purr. "Usually, the prisoners we put in cells together want nothing more than to get rid of each other completely. And yet, you, Unidentified Cahill… you saved her life. Why?"

All eyes were on Monet now. Staring back bravely at Cora, he answered, "Because I have a conscience, and Irina does not deserve to die so young."

There was silence. Finally, Cora said, "Let's move on."

She played the rest of the footage, only pausing again when Irina and Monet began their first fighting lesson. "This, I have to admit, rather surprised me. It almost looked to me like you were trying to _teach _her, Unidentified Cahill; most curious. Don't you agree?" She looked at Monet piercingly.

"I, personally, am wondering why you think that I would dare to teach someone who I know will one day be my enemy," Monet replied coolly.

Cora merely nodded, and played the footage. She paused a few minutes later, while Monet was helping Irina off the ground. "He treats you with such… _tenderness, _Lucian," she turned to Irina. "Look at how he's staring at you. Did you perhaps notice that yourself?"

"No," Irina lied, feigning confusion. "He was just helping me up."

"Then why is he staring?"

"There was something on my face," Irina said easily. "He was trying to decide what it was."

Cora's eyes narrowed at Irina. "I am not stupid. _Tell. Me. The. Truth._"

"I am," Irina replied. "Why would I lie to you?"

The Janus leader growled, anger now seeping through her features, as she continued playing the footage. Now, Monet and Irina watched themselves practicing control. This time, Cora paused when Irina pushed Monet up against the wall. "Such _anger_, Lucian… care to tell me what it was from?"

"He was insulting me and my family," Irina returned truthfully.

"Oh? And why is that?" Cora raised an eyebrow, turning towards Monet expectantly.

"She's the enemy," Monet shrugged nonchalantly. "I got sick of her high-and-mighty attitude."

Cora clucked sympathetically. "I believe that I would, too. Moving on." She finished playing the footage, right up to Nicolas slapping Irina multiple times (Monet's fists clenched at his sides, while Cora smiled at Nicolas, who swelled with pride). Then, Cora pressed a button on her desk, and the screen turned off. She sat down in her desk chair, folded her hands, and looked at Irina and Monet.

"You two," she began, "are, without a doubt, the strangest prisoners I have ever had the misfortunate of coming upon. Instead of fighting each other, you not only get along, but you have _feelings _for each other!"

"We do not!" the two exclaimed together, mouths agape.

"Oh, you don't?" Cora chortled incredulously. "Please. I am a Janus; my branch of the family holds the great artists of the world. Love is the most popular subject of all forms of art; I know it when I see it."

"_Love_?" Monet exclaimed, his eyes wide.

"That is ridiculous!" Irina followed. "Preposterous! For _me_ to love _him_- or for him to love me- it is crazy! Impossible!"

"Is it?" Cora asked. "Then prove it."

"How are we supposed to prove _that_?" Monet questioned.

At this, the corners of Cora's mouth crept up into a smirk. "Kiss," she said simply.

"_What?_" Monet and Irina yelled simultaneously, both looking utterly shocked. Cora's smirk just grew, and she leaned back in her chair.

"You heard me. Kiss. I know acting when I see it. I will be able to tell whether or not you two actually have feelings for each other," Cora explained. "So? What are you waiting for?"

Monet gulped and wet his lips nervously. Turning to face his cellmate, he noticed that she wore a disgusted expression, but that her eyes were panicked, yet determined.

They both shut their eyes and leaned forward. Their lips met in the briefest of kisses before the both drew back, scowling.

On the outside, at least.

Irina wiped her lips. "Well? Are you happy now?" She glared at Cora.

"Actually… yes," the Janus leader replied. "Nicolas!" She snapped her fingers, and the guard came running, looking very much like a dog despite his massive size. "Take these two back to their cell."

"Of course, Mrs. Wizard," Nicolas nodded obediently. "Do you need anything else?"

"Hmm… an iced mocha, with a cherry and extra whipped cream," Cora added, smiling dazzlingly at the guard.

"I'm on it!" Nicolas said quickly, and then pulled Irina and Monet out of the room.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Get in," he ordered roughly, pushing them inside of their cell, which they had finally reached after a long, awkward trip.

"What about our handcuffs?" Monet asked. It was the first time he had spoken since before the kiss.

"Oh. Right." Nicolas pressed a button on his belt, and both the handcuffs unlocked and fell off. The guard pulled them through the cell bars, picked them up, and tucked them back in his pocket. Then, without another word, he walked away, muttering under his breath, "Iced mocha with a cherry… Don't forget the extra whipped cream…"

The cell was quiet for a moment, its occupants looking anywhere but at each other. Finally, Irina broke the silence. "It was not bad, you know."

"Yeah," Monet agreed, his cheeks reddening. "I'm honestly surprised that we were able to fool her."

"What was there to fool her about?" Irina asked sharply. "We _don't _have feelings for each other."

"Right," Monet nodded hastily. "We're just… friends. Right?"

"Correct," Irina confirmed quietly, sounding almost… weak. "Just friends."

Silence reigned for another moment. This time, Monet broke it. "We're lying to ourselves, Irina, and we both know it," he said softly. "I don't particularly want this to happen either, but-"

"You don't want _what _to happen?" Irina inquired bitingly. "_Nothing _is happening between us."

"I know you felt it, too, Irina!" Monet hissed. "I saw it in your eyes!"

"There was nothing in my eyes, and there still is nothing," Irina spoke. "I am going to bed now." She made to walk to her bed, and Monet grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.

"You're lying, Irina," he stated. "You still are."

"_Good night, _Monet." Irina tugged her wrist out of his grasp and strode to her bed, lying down and pretending that she was asleep.

It was her second act that Monet didn't fall for that night.

_**Ooo! A quick update! *cheers for me, then ducks to avoid a tomato* I personally felt like this chapter was a bit rushed, but otherwise, I really liked it. Mostly because of the Irina/Monet. :D What do YOU think? Please review!**_

**_-Joelle8_**


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"Irina, please talk to me."

"No."

"You can't hide from this- from _us-_ forever."

"It is impossible to hide from something that doesn't exist, Monet!"

"_Stop saying it doesn't exist!_"

This was an argument that Irina and Monet had carried out every day in the week since Cora Wizard had summoned them to her office. Since she had made them kiss, and been so very fooled by their faces.

At that instant, the phrase, "Never judge a book by its cover" couldn't have been more true. On the outside, when Irina and Monet had kissed- that tiny little peck, like one would give their grandmother even- they had looked utterly repulsed, as if they had just been forced to eat fish livers. The scowls and glares they shot each other conveyed true hatred.

But, on the inside, both of them had been leaping in ecstasy, above even Cloud Nine. Electric tingles, akin to those produced by the handcuffs except much pleasanter, had shot through the both of them, starting from their lips and going all the way down their spines. Their bodies had ached for more.

Their bodies _still _ached for more.

Every time Monet and Irina did something as innocent as lay eyes on each other, that want, that _need_, flooded them, despite Irina's protests that she felt nothing. Monet knew that she was in denial; he knew that she didn't _want _to love him, and he completely understood that.

He didn't want to love her, either.

For one thing, it was a terrible time and place: They were two prisoners, trapped in a dungeon together. There was no worse place for a romance to blossom. For another, it was Monet and Irina themselves. Irina was young, beautiful, intelligent, and skilled; she had a whole bright future ahead of her. On the other hand, Monet was twenty-one years older than her- old enough to be her father- and had already gone through what was probably half his life. He had nothing ahead of him except more of the same: More fighting, more spying, more hunting.

Then, of course, there was also the small problem that once they escaped the prison, they would most likely never see each other again except in combat. And who knew how often that would be, even.

Monet couldn't subject Irina to that. He hated that he would end up putting her through that. But he couldn't help loving Irina; he just did. And no matter what he told himself was wrong with it, the feeling stayed in his heart, strong and resolute, refusing to diminish.

"Please, Irina- you know I wouldn't push this unless I knew that it was true," he said as he dodged a kick that the Lucian sent whooshing through the air. _Note to self: When Irina's conflicted and angry, she fights even harder than usual. Even if it's just practice, _he thought grimly, grabbing Irina's wrist and twisting her around so that her back was up against him and she was trapped in his grip.

"Then why are you pushing this?" Irina said, sweat trickling down her forehead, breathing heavily. "It is not true!" Using all of her strength, she pushed her hand up and punched Monet's jaw; the blow startled him into letting go of her, and she bounded away, as quick and agile as a cheetah.

"Do you know what's not true?" Monet asked, spinning his leg in the air as he tried to trip Irina onto the ground. "You saying that you don't have any feelings for me! We both know that that's a lie, Irina!"

"It is _not _a lie!" Irina spat, convincing herself more than she was convincing Monet. She grabbed his spinning leg and flipped him over onto his stomach; he hit the ground loudly, only staying there for a minute before hopping back up again, facing Irina once more. "I do _not _have any sort of feelings for you!"

Monet lunged at her; she caught his wrist in the air and twisted him so that he landed on his feet, directly in front of her. Her fist moved to give Monet a black eye; however, his other hand caught Irina's fist in midair, just as the wrist she was holding twisted so that the grip was reversed. Monet held his companion close up against him, so close that his breath hit her neck, causing her to shiver. "You can't say that that shiver was from the cold," he whispered in her ear, smirking.

"Let go of me," she growled. Monet pulled her closer against him (which she hadn't thought possible before), and she felt her "non-existent" (she claimed) feelings flood through her yet again, like burning lava, obliterating everything that stood in its path.

She had to close her eyes and take a few deep breaths to let her common sense return and stop her from flinging herself at Monet, right then and there.

He was wrong for her. She knew that. He was just plain _wrong _for her. Too old; too different; too _experienced_. And yet, she had feelings for him that she had never had for any man before. It wasn't like the crush she had had on a boy in her school named Anatoli when she was eleven years old; it was completely, totally different. She had just thought Anatoli was cute; nothing more. But with Monet…

It was like she _needed _to be with him. And she hated that. Because Irina Spaskaya needed no one. She was a strong, independent woman, and no mere man was going to change that. Not if she had anything to say about it.

Finally, she regained her composure, and hissed to Monet, "If you do not let go of me _right now_, then I will rid you of the ability to have children."

To her severe displeasure, Monet actually _chuckled. _"I wasn't planning on having children, Irina," he told her honestly.

"Why? You would be a good father." The words flew out of Irina's mouth before she could think twice about them.

"No, I wouldn't," Monet shook his head, making his dark, shaggy hair tickle Irina's neck. "I'm a Cahill agent. I wouldn't be around enough to really take care of my kids. I don't want to subject a poor child to that." A pause followed his words. In an almost thoughtful tone, he told Irina, "_You_, however, would make an excellent mother."

"_Me_?" Irina couldn't help but laugh out loud at the utter absurdity of that statement. "Monet, you are insane. I, too, am a Cahill agent. I would not be around enough to spend time with my child. Besides, I am not patient and caring like mothers should be."

"Well, I have to admit, you may be a tad impatient," Monet said, "but you're as caring as they come. You would be a fantastic mother, Irina. You would give your child anything they could possibly want; you would make sure of that."

"Why do you keep doing this?" Irina breathed, her voice soft. Monet frowned confusedly.

"What do you mean?"

"_This_. Being kind to me. Telling me that I am good. _Loving _me. Why are you doing this?"

"Because I love you," Monet answered simply. "I love you, and you deserve to be told every single day how wonderful you are."

Irina's face scrunched up. "That is disgustingly- what is the word?- sappy."

"Yes, it is," Monet chortled. "It's true, though, even if you won't believe me."

"I _do _believe you," she said slowly. "I believe that you love me. How could I not? You certainly have made it clear enough over the past week."

"And yet, you won't admit that you return my feelings."

"Because I _don't_." Even Irina couldn't have been convinced by her own protest. Her voice was small and, frankly, pathetic.

"You do," Monet spoke, his blue eyes hard and sure.

For a few minutes, there was silence in the cell. Then, quietly, Irina requested, "Please let go of me."

Monet did this. Irina didn't dare to look back at his hurt blue eyes- she knew that, if she did, she would never be able to deny her love for him- and walked towards her bed, lying down, her back facing her cellmate, her stubbornly dry eyes staring at the metal wall.

Only once Monet was sure that Irina wasn't going to turn around, jump up, and run toward him, declaring her love for him, did he retreat to his own bed, lying down on it and gazing at the wall.

Neither of them slept that night.

_**Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter; I got nine! My record for this story! They pushed me to update faster than usual! This chapter is kind of short, but personally, I think that it's the best written of all the chapters in this story so far. Not to sound full of it or anything, but I love it. :) So, anyways, what do YOU think? Please review and tell me!**_

**_Thanks so much, everybody!_**

**_-Joelle8_**


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Monet was confused. And, as usual, Irina was the cause. But this time, it wasn't because of her continuous denials; it was because it was perfectly warm in the dungeon, and she had her arms wrapped around herself, chattering as if she was stranded in Antarctica in the middle of winter.

"Irina, are you alright?" He asked concernedly.

"F-F-Fin-n-ne," she replied, looking anything but.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to Monet. "Let me feel your forehead, Irina."

"N-N-No."

"_Please_, Irina."

Even when she felt like she had gone skinny dipping in a frozen lake, Irina couldn't say no to Monet's big, blue, pleading eyes. Not when they were so caring. Sighing, so as to show just how reluctant she was, she scooted closer to Monet, turning her head to face him.

He lightly pressed his hand against Irina's forehead, and drew it back a couple seconds later. "Irina, you're burning up!" he exclaimed, alarmed by just how hot she was. "Does your throat hurt?"

Irina shook her head much too quickly; she was obviously lying. "Is your nose stuffy?" Monet inquired.

The Lucian was about to shake her head again when, right on cue, she sneezed, spraying snot all over the cell floor. She groaned; how _embarrassing_!

"Yep. You're sick," Monet decided. "Come on; let's get you back to bed."

Irina shook her head stubbornly. They were going to work on reading faces today! It was an essential lesson; why would she let being sick get in her way?

Monet seemed to read her mind. "We'll do the lesson another day, Irina. I promise. Isabel Kabra wouldn't make you go on a mission when you're sick- you wouldn't do nearly up to standard- so there's no way you're going to practice when you're sick. Now, off to bed. Come on."

Grudgingly, Irina stood up, still chattering, and Monet led her to her bed, keeping a firm grip on her wrist. Once they reached it, he gently helped her sit down, and then knelt in front of her, his eyes raking over her carefully for any sign of a cut. The last thing Irina needed when she was already sick was an infection.

Though he could find no cut of any kind, he did notice how very thin her short-sleeved T-shirt was. _It's no wonder she's cold, _he thought, watching her rubs her arms up and down each other in an attempt to keep herself warm. In a split-second decision, Monet took off his own long-sleeved black shirt and held it out to her.

"N-N-No, I-I c-c-couldn't," Irina chattered, pushing the shirt back towards Monet while focusing all her energy on not looking at his magnificently toned chest.

"Yes, you can, and you will," Monet insisted firmly, pushing his shirt back towards her. "Don't worry, Irina; I'm perfectly warm, even without a shirt. You're sick, and you need to keep yourself from getting too cold. That T-shirt of yours is made for keeping cool; it's no help to you here. Just put my shirt on over it; you'll be much warmer."

Irina hesitated for a second, and then thrust the shirt over herself. Monet was right; she was much warmer now, even if she wasn't as warm as she would like to be yet. She snuggled into the shirt, breathing in Monet's scent (not that he had to know).

"Better now?" Monet asked, a hopeful light sparkling in his eyes.

"Y-Yes," Irina nodded. "Wh-What brand i-is th-th-this? I-It is comf-fortable."

"Gap," Monet replied. "It's an American brand. Everything's really comfortable- just like that- and really inexpensive. If you ever go to America, you should go to the store. You'd like it, I think."

"M-M-Maybe I w-w-will," Irina said, almost thoughtfully. She then yawned, her mouth stretching wide open like a cat's, blinking rapidly in an attempt to stay awake. Monet smiled.

"Go to sleep," he said gently. At Irina's expression, he assured her, "Don't worry, I won't be offended. Take a nice, long nap. You need it."

He didn't need to tell her twice.

XxxxxxxxX

When Irina woke up, she looked down and- to her surprise- saw a blanket draped over her. Not to mention her throat wasn't sore anymore, though her nose was still stuffy, and a box of tissue rested next to her on the ground. She sat up, a bit confused, wondering if she had somehow been taken back home while she was asleep. Looking around, she saw that she most definitely hadn't been; but then, how did she have a blanket and tissues?

"Oh, you're awake!" Monet jumped up from his own bed upon seeing Irina sitting up, looking marginally better, albeit a tad befuddled. He rushed to her side, ready to help her with anything she needed. The Lucian looked over at him with an almost bemused look on her face.

"How is this blanket here?" she asked. "And the tissues?"

Monet smirked proudly. "I conned the guard out of them. It took awhile- there's a really bad storm outside, according to him, so he wanted the blanket for himself- but it was clear that my shirt wasn't enough to keep you warm."

Irina looked down and saw that she hadn't imagined how sculpted her companion's chest was after all. Her heart fluttered, skipping a few beats. She suddenly found her mouth dry, and she licked her lips to wet them again, still staring at his chest.

Monet smiled amusedly as Irina almost subconsciously gazed at his chest. _I knew working out every day would pay off eventually, _he thought.

Deciding to be a good person, he snapped his fingers to get Irina's attention. "Irina? Irina? Earth to Irina?"

Irina looked back up at Monet's face abruptly, a bit startled. She blushed beet red; judging by the twinkle in Monet's eyes, he had noticed her staring. _Fiddlesticks, _she thought, using a phrase that she had heard from an American pole-vaulter once.

"Like what you see, eh?" The words came out of Monet's mouth, accompanied by a wink, before he could stop them.

"You wish," Irina retorted, narrowing her eyes at him. _Thank God that Monet taught me how to mask my emotions, _she thought with relief.

"I don't _wish_, I _know_," Monet retaliated with a sly grin. "I have to say, by the way, you're an excellent student. You grasped the skill of hiding your true feelings perfectly."

_Drat. _"I am telling you my true feelings!" Irina exclaimed, her tone indignant. "I do not 'Like what I see', as you put it!"

"Sure you didn't," Monet drawled disbelievingly. However, he saw no point in continuing the discussion, so he changed the topic. "How do you feel?"

"Better," Irina admitted, much more at ease with this subject. "I am not as cold anymore, and my throat no longer hurts. But I still have a stuffy nose."

"So you're still not one hundred percent," Monet said, nodding slowly to himself, almost thoughtfully. Thanks to the storm outside, the lights briefly flashed on and off for a second. "Well, then I'll just have to nurse you back to health, now won't I?"

"That will not be necessary," Irina replied. "I will recover on my own."

Monet raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Are you sure about that?"

"Very. I-" Irina was cut off by the sudden feeling that she had to sneeze. Really, really badly. Monet noticed this, too, and quickly grabbed a tissue and held it against Irina's nose just as she went, "AH-_CHOO_!"

"Quite an impressive sneeze, if I do say so myself," Monet commented, tenderly wiping the snot away from around Irina's nose.

"I can do that," Irina said. "I know how to use a tissue."

"I'm aware of that," Monet replied. "I want to help, though."

"But _why_?" Irina asked. "_Why _do you want to help me so much?"

Monet's eyes were endless and full of meaning as he locked gazes with Irina. "You know why."

"Monet… there is _nothing there_," Irina declared, sounding part exasperated, part desperate. The lights in the dungeons flickered again; in the back of her mind, she registered that the storm must be worsening, and that, with any luck, they would take out the cameras' power. "It- it cannot be, you and I both know that."

"That doesn't mean that nothing's there," Monet muttered quietly, leaning in to wipe up the last bit of snot from Irina's nose. This position, however, meant that he was practically on top of the woman, and his chest was directly in her line of sight.

She gulped, forced in close her eyes in order to keep her composure.

"Well, can you blame me for not wanting anything to be there?" Irina snapped, her voice quiet, yet harsh. "Can you really? Everything about this is wrong; it would not work, not a bit of it. We are in a _cell_, for crying out loud, and what we _should _be focused on is escaping this dratted place. Not to mention that _you're _so wrong for me; I am a Lucian agent. I am Irina Spaskaya. I am a former pole vaulting champion. You know everything about me, and yet, I know next to nothing about you!"

"You want to know the truth about me?" Monet asked in scarcely more than a whisper. Irina opened her eyes to see that he was no longer leaning over her, and his blue eyes were boring into hers, as hard as stone.

"Then I'll tell you. My name is Fiske Cahill, and I'm not a Lucian. I'm not a Tomas, or a Janus, or an Ekat, either. I'm a Madrigal. When I was twenty-one years old, I was studying at college to be a painter when I supposedly went missing; in reality, my father made me start training to be an agent, forcing me to abandon all the dreams that I treasured throughout my childhood.

"As I already told you, one of my sisters is Grace, and the other is Beatrice. Grace was the one who raised me; Beatrice couldn't have cared less if I was alive or not. When I started my training, Grace was the one person from my former life besides my parents who I was allowed to keep contact with. In fact, she helped to train me, being gentler and more effective with me than my parents ever were when I was a child. She's the secret to my success as an agent, and now, I am the best of the best.

"Nowadays, my full-time occupation is working for the Madrigal branch. I paint only in my spare time, of which I have very little. My special skills are stealth, fighting, manipulation, and acting. I am a bit like a Janus, I suppose, except not as stupid as them." A brief hint of a smile flitted across his face. "Well… that's it. I've told you everything."

And indeed he had. Every single detail about himself that he had kept secret from outsiders for years, he had now revealed to an enemy agent. All for love.

_Love is the greatest weakness mankind knows, _he thought solemnly.

Irina was silent, absorbing all the information she had just heard. She knew, without a doubt now, that Monet- no, Fiske- trusted her, cared for her, loved her. It was impossible for her to deny it any longer, now that he had just told her everything there was to know about him, in full confidence that she wouldn't tell- which she wouldn't, of course.

She wouldn't betray the man she loved, even if he was a Madrigal.

She couldn't find the words to tell him- not right away. For a moment, she stared at him, while the lights flickered on and off repeatedly, threatening to turn off at any second.

"I love you," she said finally, staring straight into his eyes, the three words simple, but filled with so much meaning.

Fiske's eyes lit up, and he tenderly put his hand behind her head, pulling her in for a kiss.

And then, the lights went out.

_**YAY YAY YAY! Are you as happy as me right now? I sure hope you are! PLEASE review! Otherwise, I won't know if you liked it, if you hated it, what I need to work on... anything! Seriously, you can even flame me, just review! Please!**_

**_Thanks!_**

**_-Joelle8_**


	11. Chapter 10

**_Okay, I am SO SO SO SO SO SO SO sorry, everybody! I seriously didn't mean to put up the same chapter twice! I hope you enjoy this- the ACTUAL tenth chapter!_**

Chapter 10

"Wow," Irina sighed, a small smile on her face. "That was…" _Amazing. Stupendous. Remarkable. _"…Fun."

"Yeah," Fiske agreed, nodding. He sat up; Irina, since she was on top of him, did the same. "Did I… I mean… Are you…"

"You did wonderfully," Irina assured her companion. "I am fine."

"Good," Fiske grinned. "We should probably get dressed."

"Yes, we should," Irina said, reaching for her clothes, which were lying on the cold stone floor of the cell. She gracefully climbed off of Fiske's lap and put them on. Turning back around, she saw that Fiske was already dressed. The Lucian gaped at him. "How did you do that so quickly?"

"Pure skill, my dear Irina," Fiske said, winking secretively. Irina's smile grew in response.

"Whatever you say, Fiske," she chuckled. "So… what are we going to practice today?"

Fiske groaned. "Can't we just relax?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"But I'm _tired_!"

"And does that stop you from doing missions?" Irina countered, raising an eyebrow. "No. I don't think so. Therefore, I will not let it stop you from teaching me."

Fiske huffed. "You're lucky you're beautiful."

Despite her cool façade, Irina blushed. "Do not worry, you are not so bad yourself."

Fiske laughed at this, and then decided, "Alright, today, we'll practice controlling emotions. Okay? To start, I'm going to-"

"Well, how's the happy couple here?"

Irina and Fiske whirled around to see the guard leering at them, his eyes malicious. They exchanged a look and gulped.

"What do you mean?" Irina asked, feigning confusion.

Nicolas laughed heartily, cruelly. "You know _exactly _what I mean, Princess. This morning, Mrs. Wizard woke up, and guess what she saw?" He laughed again as Fiske and Irina paled. "That's right. I have to tell you, in all my years of working in a Janus dungeon, I have _never _had two cellmates hook up before."

Fiske glanced over at Irina; from the furious, embarrassed look on her face, he guessed that she was too preoccupied with internally cursing in Russian to say anything. So, he decided to. "Does Cora want to see us, then?" he asked calmly.

"Yep," the guard said, quickly unlocking the cell door, slipping inside, and relocking it before either Irina or Fiske had a chance to dart out. Nicolas pulled two sets of handcuffs out of his pocket and approached the prisoners. Fiske stiffened, and then moved to stand in front of Irina.

"Aw, how sweet," the guard cackled. "You're trying to protect your sweetheart. But, I hate to break it to you: it's not going to help anyone."

"Don't touch her," Fiske growled, completely ignoring the guard's words. Irina felt her heart swell with gratitude.

Nicolas sighed dramatically. "Well, I guess that if you won't stand aside, I'll have to make you." Then, so fast that neither Fiske nor Irina had a chance to blink, he pulled off his belt and slapped Fiske with it. The man cried out with pain and fell to the ground, clutching his cheek. Irina let out a cry of outrage.

"How _dare _you!" She shouted, instantly kneeling at Fiske's side, but facing Nicolas still. "You barbaric cockroach! You do not know how lucky you are that I do not have my weapons with me, otherwise-"

"Save it, Princess," Nicolas snapped, irritated. "Now, get over here so I can cuff you already. And don't think about refusing; or else your lover's gonna get hit again." His eyes glinted venomously, darting down to Fiske, who was slowly rising, his hand still on his bruising cheek.

Slowly, reluctantly, Irina stood up, walked towards Nicolas, and allowed him to put the handcuffs on her. Smirking, the guard then strode over to Fiske, pulled him off the ground roughly, and slammed the handcuffs on his wrist as well. Then, he attached the same chain as before to the handcuffs, and, keeping a firm grip on it, he dragged the prisoners out of the cell.

XxxxxxX

"I must say, I am shocked," Cora Wizard said, pacing back and forth in front of Irina and Fiske in her office. Nicolas was standing behind her at her desk, watching her with the utmost admiration, as if she was an angel come down from Heaven.

It made both Irina and Fiske sick just by seeing it.

"Absolutely stunned," Cora went on, stopping her pacing to face Irina and Fiske. "I have been the leader of the Janus branch for a long time; before me, my father had the honor; and before him, my grandmother. Until now, it had been unheard of for two prisoners to get along- let alone fornicate with each other!"

Irina and Fiske blushed identical shades of dark red, looking down at their feet. To hear what they had done broadcasted like that, and to know that Cora Wizard had actually _seen_ it… it was just plain _embarrassing_.

"I told them that, ma'am," Nicolas interjected excitedly. "I told them, that in all my years of guarding the dungeons, I'd never seen two prisoners hook up before."

"Very good, Nicolas," Cora said, clearly uncaring and exasperated. However, the guard beamed proudly, standing up a little straighter. "Now, prisoners- I am going to ask you some questions, and you are going to answer them truthfully. Understand?"

"How will you know if we lie?" Fiske asked, looking at the Janus branch leader unwaveringly.

"Oh, believe me," Cora began, "I will know. I am a Janus; I know acting when I see it."

"That is what you said the last time you spoke to us," Irina pointed out. "And yet, we were able to fool you into thinking that we did not have feelings for each other. What does that say about you, Cora? Personally, it makes me wonder why you are in a position of power when you are so _stupid_."

Nicolas lunged forward angrily, but Cora calmly held up a hand to stop him, though her eyes flashed. "Perhaps we will give our Lucian friend here a taste of what her lover had to go through for his insolence last time," she smirked deviously. "Electrocute her."

The guard pressed a button on his belt, and instantly, bolts of electricity shot into Irina's wrists, burning them from the inside, giving the Lucian pain like she had never before experienced. She let out a strangled cry of pain and stumbled, but refused to fall.

"I think," Cora started slyly, "that we should make her bow to me, like she is supposed to. I am her superior, after all. Nicolas- shock her again."

The Janus did as he was told, and this time, Irina found herself fall to her knees from the pain, which was even worse than before, in spite of all her efforts to remain standing. She heard footsteps rushing to her side, and saw Fiske kneeling next to her. "Irina? Irina, are you alright?" he asked worriedly, concern seeping through all of his features.

"Yes," Irina murmured back, "I am fine." With a grunt, she pushed herself back up to her feet; Fiske rose with her, keeping his arms out as if to catch her in case she fell again. Irina smiled at him, signaling that she was grateful, but she would not be falling. Not again.

"Are you two ready for your questions now?" Cora asked primly, with a polite smile, as if she hadn't just tortured Irina.

"What makes you think that we will tell you the truth?" Irina shot back, glaring at Cora with renewed loathing.

"Simply this: if you lie to me, Lucian, then I will shock Unidentified Cahill," Cora replied, keeping the deceiving smile in place. "Just as I will shock you if Unidentified Cahill lies to me. I am sure that you do not want either of you to have to experience that."

Irina could not argue with this. For a Janus, Cora was as cunning as a Lucian when it came to using peoples' weaknesses against them. She knew that Irina and Fiske would rather be hurt themselves than for the other to be hurt; the Janus leader used that to her advantage.

"Now, I'm going to ask you again: Are you two ready for your questions now?" Cora repeated, her tone unnaturally cheery.

Irina and Fiske exchanged a look, and then nodded.

"Good," Cora said. "First, I have a question for you, Lucian: What is your name?"

"Irene Sidorov."

Instantly, Fiske cried out as his wrists were shocked. Cora smirked, raising an eyebrow at Irina, silently saying, _I told you so. _Without even thinking about the consequences, Irina burst out, "Irina Spaskaya!"

"The pole-vaulter?"

"Yes."

"Interesting," Cora said shortly. "Irina Spaskaya… the name fits you. Now, Unidentified Cahill, a question for you: What is your branch?"

Fiske, keeping a cool face all the while, responded, "Not Janus."

Cora's eyes narrowed at him. "I am well aware of that, you miserable piece of filth. I would like to know which Cahill branch, _specifically, _you are a part of. And if you do not tell me a straight answer, then your darling Irina Spaskaya here will be shocked. _Again_."

There was a moment of tense silence. Then, so quietly, that Irina, who was standing right next to Fiske, had to straight to hear it, the man said, "Madrigal."

"Louder."

"Madrigal!" Fiske blurted out, looking straight into Cora's now astonished eyes. To his glee, he saw a trace of fear there before the Janus leader resumed her glaring at him.

"I should have known," she hissed. "You're not brawny enough to be a Tomas; not intelligent enough to be an Ekat; not stealthy enough to be a Lucian. Of course, that must come as no surprise to you, seeing as that's how we caught you in the first place."

Fiske ground his teeth together angrily. Irina reached out her hand to squeeze his, silently calming him down. He looked down at her, and his blue eyes softened slightly, filling with love.

"Oh, how sweet," Cora simpered. "I'm afraid we don't have time for that, though. Nicolas- you know what to do."

This time, the guard pressed two buttons, and both Irina and Fiske were shocked. They let out twin screams of agony; this pain was at least three times worse than before.

"What a beautiful sound," Cora sighed. "Thank you, Nicolas. Now- another question for the Madrigal. What is your name?"

"My- my name?" Fiske stammered.

"Yes. Your name. Is that such a hard question to answer? Your companion did, after all."

Fiske didn't know what to do. On the one hand, if he didn't tell Cora the truth, then Irina would be hurt; on the other hand, if he did tell her, then Grace and her family could be hurt- not to mention himself.

However, he was spared the trouble of answering by a loud thud on the roof, causing the whole room to tremble. Cora looked up at the ceiling suspiciously.

And then, it broke.

With a loud crack, a large piece of the ceiling fell out. The Janus branch leader darted out of the way just in time to avoid being hit- and then, on top of the piece of ceiling, a robot dropped down, landing on all eight of its spindly metal legs. Aside from its legs, the robot closely resembled a metal human, complete with torso and thick, flexible arms. But in place of a head was a thin, black TV.

"Hello, Irina," Nataliya Ruslanova Radova's head greeted from the screen.

_**Hello, all! I have an important announcement:**_

**_This story is coming to a close._**

**_If all goes as planned, there will be two more chapters after this one, including the epilogue. I would have loved to make it longer, but unfortunately, I just don't have enough ideas to do that._**

**_Anyways, what did you guys think of this chapter? Love it? Hate it? Please review; I'd love to know what you think!_**

**_Thanks!_**

**_-Joelle8_**


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

"_Nataliya_?" Irina gaped at her friend's face on the TV screen that rested in place of a head on an otherwise primarily human (aside from having eight legs) robot.

"You two know each other?" Fiske asked sharply, her head turned completely towards Irina, though his gaze darted between her and the robot.

From the screen, Nataliya let out a tittering laugh. "Know each other? We have been friends for a very long time, stranger. I have known her since she was merely three years old and could not pronounce my name!"

Irina laughed, though her light red cheeks displayed her slight embarrassment. "My friend, is this really the time for you to tell stories about me from when you were my- what is it that Americans call it? Ah, yes- babysitter."

"She was your _babysitter_?" It was Nicolas, having moved to his branch leader's side, who had spoken, his jaw dropped- though Fiske had to confess to thinking along the same lines.

"Yes," Nataliya nodded. "Admittedly, we lost touch during a time span of approximately ten years, but we were reunited in the Lucian training camp, so all is well."

"Interesting," Cora Wizard said, obviously not meaning it at all. She stood with one hand tucked in her pants pocket, visibly clenched around something, and Irina and Fiske automatically tensed. "Now, Nataliya- that is your name, I believe- let's cut to the chase: what are you doing here?"

Nataliya smiled politely. "I believe that you already know the answer to that, Cora."

The dark eyes of the Janus branch leader glinted with malice. "Then I take it that you are, indeed, here to rescue your friend and her lover?"

From her screen, the head of Nataliya Radova raised an eyebrow, and the robot shifted its position to look at Irina. "Lover?" she questioned, with a glance at Fiske, who stood close by Irina's side, but refused to look up from the ground. "You will have to tell me about this later, my friend. Now, though… now is not the time." She turned back towards Cora and replied, "Yes, I am indeed here to rescue Irina… and her companion."

With a snarl, Cora pulled a gun out of her pocket. Instantly, Fiske moved to stand in front of Irina protectively. She pushed him to the side, and he had to fight a smile; of course, Irina wouldn't want to be deprived of some good fighting. It was one of the things he loved about her.

Nataliya laughed. "Cora, you must know that I cannot be hurt by a bullet. After all, I am not here; my body is safely somewhere else entirely. If you shot me, you would only be shooting a robot; and if you did decide to shoot my robot, I doubt much harm would come from it, aside from there being a hole in a piece of one-of-a-kind technology stolen from the Ekaterinas just last week."

Now, it was Cora who laughed. "I'm not stupid, Lucian. I know very well that not a shred of harm would come to you if I shot the robot. However, I cannot let these prisoners escape." She pointed the gun straight at where Irina and Fiske stood, side by side, grasping each other's hands. Cora smirked. "How sweet. Seeking comfort from each other in what you know are your final moments."

"Actually," Irina said brightly, a cunning glint in her eyes, "I was just taking advantage of an opportunity. You see, Cora, when you caught me, you did not take all of my weapons." She held up her hands, and Cora and Nicolas were shocked to see the handcuffs melting straight off of the woman's wrists. Fiske held up his hands- and the melting handcuffs that were falling off his wrists as the two Janus stared- as well.

"But- but- _how_?" Cora spluttered, stunned.

"We Lucians are experts in poisons," Irina said, extending her blood red nails for her captors to see. "Not to mention exceptionally skilled at hidings things. It is funny; nobody would think to look for a metal-melting poison in my nails."

"If that poison melts metal, then why didn't you melt your cell bars?" Nicolas asked confusedly. The other people in the room looked a bit shocked that it was actually a sensible question.

Irina shrugged. "The poison only works on certain metals. Your handcuffs and your cells are made of two different types of metal; of the two, only the handcuffs can be melted by my poison."

"As fascinating as that is," Cora began, apparently having finally gotten over her astonishment, her gun still pointing at Irina and Fiske, "I'm afraid we have other, more important matters to attend to."

"I'm afraid that we do as well," Nataliya said, and one of her robot hands clenched into a fist. "And, unfortunately for you, those plans do not include killing my friend."

It happened faster than anyone could blink: Nataliya's robot fist dislodged from the metal arm, landing on the ground with a loud _thunk_, accompanied by high-pitched beeping. Nicolas, wide-eyed, pushed Cora to the side just as Nataliya shouted, "Go!" One of her fingers pointed up at the ceiling, and as if on command, a stepladder unfolded until it was hanging from some indiscernible source. Irina instantly did as her friend ordered, and scurried up the ladder; Fiske, after less than a moment's hesitation, followed.

The two companions found themselves on the roof, looking up at a large, loud helicopter with a rope hanging down from it. Without wasting a second, Fiske and Irina leapt into the air, grabbed onto the rope, climbed up it until they reached the helicopter's open door, and went inside.

And then, the building exploded.

With a loud _boom_, Nataliya's robot's fist blew apart the Janus stronghold. Flames erupted, ash clouded the skies, and pieces of wood, metal, and stone- all materials that had been used in the construction of the place- flew into the air. The helicopter swerved to avoid a piece of metal, and then rose higher into the sky, into the clouds.

"Who's steering this thing?" Fiske asked, loudly over the roar of the helicopter's wings, as the helicopter turned and he slid to the opposite side.

"I do not know," Irina shouted back. "I will go check." She made her way to the pilot's seat, grabbing onto various objects as she to help keep her balance, and saw that while the controls were moving, no one was there.

Except, once again, Nataliya; this time on a computer screen.

"Ah, hello, my friend," Nataliya greeted Irina with a smile. "I see you've made it to my helicopter."

"Thank you for rescuing us," Irina replied; out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Fiske was behind her, steadily making his way to Irina's side. The Lucian woman couldn't help but smile at his slight protectiveness. "What is your helicopter called?"

"The Shark," Nataliya replied with a smile. "I am going to steer you both to the Lucian headquarters in- actually, I will not disclose that information. You are not a Lucian," she said, with a nod in Fiske's direction. "Where would you like me to drop you off?"

"Easter Islands," Fiske responded after a pause, "if that's not too much trouble."

Nataliya frowned. "It is a bit out of the way, but that is no problem. I will inform you when we have arrived. Now, Irina," her gaze shifted to her old friend, her eyes softening, "I believe we have something to discuss. _Alone_."

"Alright," Irina nodded, then turned to Fiske; taking a hint, he nodded back at her and made his way to the rear of the helicopter.

"Who is he?" Nataliya asked abruptly, reverting to her native Russian.

"Monet," Irina answered smoothly, also in Russian. "He is called Monet."

"Like the painter?"

"Yes," Irina said, with a slight smirk, "just like the painter."

"How did you meet him?" Nataliya questioned.

"When I was captured, there was a shortage of space in the dungeon," Irina explained. "I was forced to share a cell with him."

Nataliya nodded slowly, absorbing the information. Then, in her soft Russian voice, she inquired, "Do you love him?"

Irina paused, choosing her words carefully, before finally speaking. "I do not wish to, my old friend. I know for a fact that he is not a Lucian, and that he is more than two decades older than me. But… I cannot help it. Please, Nataliya, do not be angry at me."

"Why would I be angry at you?" Nataliya smiled kindly. "Love is not something to be ashamed of, Irina, no matter how wrong it may seem. I do have to remind you, though," she added, her grin falling, "that once he departs this helicopter, if you ever see him again, then it will be as enemies."

Irina nodded in understanding. "I am well aware of that. Monet is, as well. We have known that all along."

"Good," Nataliya said. "Well, I believe that is all I wanted to say. Is there anything you need to discuss with me?"

"I slept with him," Irina admitted quietly, still in Russian, looking down at her feet, her cheeks redder than roses.

"Do you regret it?"

"No."

"Then I have nothing to say about it," Nataliya said smoothly. "Now, go back to Monet. I am sure that he is lonely. Besides- you should spend as much time as you can with him before we reach the Easter Islands."

"You are right," Irina let a ghost of a grin creep up onto her face, "as usual. Thank you, Nataliya- for everything. I am privileged to have you as my friend."

"And I you, Irina," Nataliya replied with a smile.

Irina smiled back, fully this time, before walking back to where Fiske sat, looking out the helicopter's tinted windows. His head whipped around to face her as he heard her footsteps approaching.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his blue eyes looking straight into Irina's brown ones. "I wish that there was some way I could see you again, not as enemies, but I just don't see how it would work."

"I know," Irina agreed in English, sitting down beside him. "But it is okay. This has been… fun."

A half-smile made its way onto Fiske's face. "A bit better than just 'fun', if you ask me."

"Well, yes, that is true," Irina chuckled. "In any case… I have no regrets. Not about anything."

Fiske wordlessly put his arms around the woman, bringing her closer to him. She allowed this, reveling in the warmth of his body. Then, sleep overtook them both.

XxxxxxxX

Irina and Fiske awoke to Nataliya's voice, the volume raised thanks to the computer, saying, "We have arrived at the Easter Islands. We will be landing in a moment."

The companions sat up, rubbing their eyes blearily. Realizing what Nataliya had said, they both stood up, neither of them looking at each other. They felt the helicopter touch down on the ground, and they gazed through the windows at the beautiful landscape, dotted with those infamous Easter Island head statues.

Not wasting a moment, Fiske grabbed Irina's hand, turned her around to face him, and then kissed her. It was slow, yet full of passion, and the two only broke apart because of need of breath.

"Goodbye, Irina," Fiske said, his voice low and quiet, placing a more chaste kiss on her lips.

"Goodbye, Fiske… Monet," Irina responded, a slight smile briefly flickering on her face. She ran a finger along Fiske's jaw, feeling his stubble, before letting it fall. She squeezed Fiske's hand once and then let go, stepping back as the helicopter door opened. "I will miss you."

"I'll miss you, too," Fiske declared, his eyes full of sorrow. Then, he hopped out the door, and slowly walked to one of the statues. When he was right in front of it, he turned around, and blew a kiss up at the helicopter that had already taken off.

_**Well, personally, that chapter was quite sad for me to write. :( I am soooooooooooo sorry I took forever to update! Blame that horrible disease called WRITER'S BLOCK! Thanks to music4evah for giving me an idea that helped me get over it! :)**_

**_Anyways, I REALLY need you to review, if only to answer this question: should I have the next chapter of this be the epilogue (and therefore, the last chapter), or would you rather me put in another chapter (possibly two, if I have the time and my brain has the intelligence) before that? PLEASE tell me in a review!_**

**_Thanks for reading, and for being patient with my updating!_**

**_-Joelle8_**


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Fiske, stop moping around!" William McIntyre exclaimed, throwing his hands up into the air in frustration. "You've been like this for a month and a half now- ever since you got back from that Janus prison! I would've thought that you'd be at least pleased to be free of that horrid place!"

"I _am_ pleased," Fiske replied, "very pleased. The dungeon was terrible."

"Then why are you acting as if your dog died, or something of the sort?" William asked. "Honestly, it's as if you're _upset _that you escaped!"

"William!" Both men turned around at the new voice and instantly straightened; William paled while Fiske's eyes glinted triumphantly. "Stop harassing my brother," Grace Cahill went on. "I will talk to him. Now go away; I'm sure there's plenty of work you need to do."

"Of course, Madame," William said politely, even giving Grace a slight bow before hurriedly scurrying away. The leader of the Madrigals chuckled.

"He's quite obedient; almost like a dog," she chortled. "In many ways, he has a heart as big as one, too; you just have to look hard to see it. Now, Fiske," she smiled at her younger brother, "come with me."

Fiske did as he was told, and followed Grace down the long, winding corridors of the Madrigal headquarters to her office. The siblings walked in and Grace quickly locked the mahogany door behind them. A large oak desk sat in the center of the circular room on a black carpet; photographs were scattered on the wall, as well as a map of different known Cahill branch headquarters. There was a large computer on the desk, and two massive televisions hung on either sides of the door, showing different views of the Madrigal headquarters so that Grace could watch for intruders.

"Sit down," Grace said, gesturing to a plush black chair on the opposite side of the desk from where she sat in a black swivel chair. "Here, I'll make you a cup of coffee. Hold on a moment."

She clapped her hands, and a machine on her desk instantly churned into action and poured coffee into a waiting mug. Grace handed the mug to her brother; he took a long sip, his eyes closed.

"Well, we both have things to attend to, so let's get down to business, shall we?" Grace started. "Clearly, something happened while you were in the Janus dungeon that changed you, so to speak. No, don't deny it, Fiske- I've known you too long, I can tell when you're lying. As I was saying, the Janus prison is horrid- so what could have affected you so much? I've been puzzling over this ever since you arrived back with us, and I finally figured out the single most plausible answer."

"Oh? And what might that be?" Fiske inquired, not a shred of emotion on his face. Grace smirked, her eyes twinkling.

"Love."

Fiske's eyes bugged out of his skull, and he let out a nervous chuckle, setting down his coffee mug on the desk. "Grace, you can't possibly think that I would _fall in love_ in a Janus dungeon! That's preposterous! It's a _prison_, Grace- how many people do you know that fell in love while trapped in a cold, grimy cell?"

"I already told you, Fiske, I can tell when you're lying," Grace stated. "Who's the girl? And I promise, I won't tell- on my honor as head of the Madrigal branch and as the mother of Hope. And as your sister, of course."

Fiske was silent for a moment before answering, "I can't tell you her name; I swore to her that I wouldn't."

"Then don't tell me her name. Tell me what you can; I believe that it would most likely feel good to get it off your chest."

The man took a deep breath, thinking about his sister's statement. As usual, she had a point; and she never backed out on a promise. Finally, he told her, "She was a Lucian, and she was younger than me. Much younger; please do not think badly of me for it. We were cellmates; that was how we met. She had gotten captured on her first mission; since I was more experienced in the ways of being a Cahill agent than her, she convinced me to teach her my skills. I agreed and… that's what happened. Along the way, we just… fell for each other. Simple and cheesy as that."

Grace nodded slowly. "That sounds like the kind of thing someone would write a story about."

Fiske cracked a small grin. "I know." The smile vanished. "But now, I'm never going to see her again except as an enemy. And she's hurt, and I'm hurt, and there's nothing we or anyone else can do about it."

"No, there's not," Grace agreed sadly. She reached over the desk and patted her brother's shoulder comfortingly. "But remember: if you ever need to talk to someone, I'm always willing to offer you moral support. That's what big sisters are for."

"Thank you, Grace," Fiske smiled softly. "I appreciate that."

"Good. Now, go rest," Grace ordered kindly. "After all you've been through, you deserve that much."

XxxxxxX

"Come in, Irina, come in," Nataliya said calmly in Russian, gesturing for her friend to sit down next to her. "Would you like anything to drink, or eat? Then again, perhaps you wouldn't like something to eat- I hear you've been feeling rather sick lately."

"Yes, I have," Irina nodded, speaking in her native Russian as well. Her skin was even paler than usual; her face was drawn, and her eyes had a look of near terror in them.

"Well, I hope that you return to full health soon," Nataliya said sincerely, with a kind smile. "Now, I believe we must discuss the matter of changing your last name. You told Cora Wizard your name; therefore, I believe it is in everyone's best interests if we make your name no longer Spaskaya. If you ask me, Irina Spasky has a certain ring to it-"

"Nataliya, I am late."

The older woman frowned, more in confusion than at being cut off. "What do you mean, you are late? You are perfectly on time, just like always."

"No, no, Nataliya, that is not what I mean," Irina shook her head. "My… my time of the month is late. It did not happen."

Nataliya adopted an expression similar to the one that covered Irina's features. "My friend," she began shakily, "do you mean to tell me that you…?"

"Yes," Irina nodded. "I am pregnant."

The older Russian woman gasped, immediately standing up to wrap her arms around her younger friend. Irina buried her head in Nataliya's shoulder, using all of her willpower to hold back tears of fright. "I do not know what to do," Irina admitted shakily. "It- it is his, but I will never see him again! And Isabel… she will be furious! She will exile me from the branch if she hears that I had a child with someone who is not a Lucian; what can I do?"

"You can always get rid of it," Nataliya said slowly. "It is not impossi-"

"No," Irina cut her ex-babysitter off. "I cannot do that. I do not believe in killing an innocent child before it has a chance to live." She stepped back from Nataliya's embrace, stood up tall and proudly, and declared, "I will have the child, and I will raise it as my own."

"Are you sure about this?" Nataliya asked tentatively. "Monet loves you, Irina, but I doubt he would want you to be inconvenienced by his child-"

"He would not want me to dispose of our child," Irina proclaimed firmly, resting a hand on her stomach. "I am sure."

Nataliya nodded slowly, understandingly. "Know, my friend, that I am here for you, whatever you need. I will help you in any way I can; I have no small influence over Isabel Vesper-Hollingsworth, you know," she went on, her eyes glinting mischievously.

"That is good to know," Irina laughed. "Thank you, Nataliya."

"Anytime," Nataliya smiled back. "After all, that is what friends- and ex-babysitters- are for."

_**I decided that it was just too soon for the epilogue- but that WILL be the next chapter. Speaking of which, it may take me awhile to post it; I'm moving overseas this week, so obviously, I'm a bit busy. If it takes me over a week or two to update, please, be patient with me. :) Anyways, I hope you liked this chapter- PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE review!**_

**_-Joelle8_**


	14. Epilogue

Epilogue

_2008_

As the two Lucian agents guarded the doors, Irina approached Amy and Dan. Their faces were terrified, and guilt consumed her. She didn't like hurting children; they were so innocent, minus the Kabras. But she would do what she had to.

A sudden scream distracted Irina, and she whirled around to see what had happened. It took a lot to make a fully trained Lucian agent scream, after all.

What Irina saw made her jaw drop, momentarily taking away all signs of coherency from her except for the rapid pounding of her heart in her chest.

_Fiske_.

She could barely see any of his face, but what she did saw looked different from the Fiske she knew. His face was more hallowed and weary, yet was set determinedly. She couldn't make out his eyes, but was sure that they were cold and dark. In his hands was a blunt metal poll that he made to lunge at the Lucian agents with.

"_You!_" Irina gasped, finally recovering from her temporary loss of voice. Her eyes were trained solely on Fiske, wearing his long black coat; she was oblivious to everything else.

It had been so long since she had seen him; so long since they had fallen in love; so long since she had discovered that she was pregnant with his child. And yet, her feelings remained the same, and she almost felt as if those times were just yesterday. There was just one difference.

This time, she knew that at least half of the feeling boiling up inside of her was anger.

She threw herself at Fiske, knocking him forward, momentarily discombobulating him. Irina took advantage of this and grabbed his arms, forcing them together at his back, narrowly dodging the swinging pole. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Amy and Dan running out of the Amber Room, but there was nothing she could do; rather, there was, but she was a tad preoccupied at the moment.

"They've escaped!" exclaimed one of the Lucian agents, the one who wasn't lying motionless on the ground.

"I see them!" Fiske shouted, gesturing in the opposite direction. The Lucian agent turned his head to follow Fiske's gaze, and Fiske wrenched his arm that held the pole out of Irina's grip and swung it at the Lucian agent's head. The man crumbled to the ground instantly. Irina, knowing what Fiske was going to do next, tightened her grip around the wrist that he hadn't freed, having no intention of letting go of him.

Unfortunately, she had forgotten Fiske's basket of tricks. He kicked one leg backwards and swung it around, tripping Irina; in the brief second when she had to regain her balance, he twisted his wrist away from her and jumped a good few paces away, the pole held in front of him.

"I don't like hurting people who haven't hurt me," he called out to her, his voice a warning.

That was when Irina figured it out.

_He didn't recognize her._

Instantly, she went out of her fighting stance (legs an arm's length apart, fists in front of her) and just stood there, gazing at him. She could tell that this startled him, and he lowered the poll because of it, perhaps seeing Irina's lack of fight as a rare offer of peace.

"Do you not remember me?" Irina asked softly, taking care not to let too much of her Russian accent get through. Call her sadistic, but she wanted to have fun with this.

Fiske frowned, clearly thinking hard. The woman's head was immersed in shadows, so he couldn't see her face. He could just barely make out her voice, which sounded familiar- very familiar- and he knew that if he heard more of it, he would be able to tell who the person was.

"You seem familiar," he answered, raising up his metal pole again, though he wasn't sure he'd really need it at this point. "I know you; that I'm sure of. I just don't know where from."

Irina laughed. Somehow, that was so typical of Fiske… the Fiske she knew, anyways. She hadn't seen him in so long; she didn't know if he had changed any or not, and if so, how much.

"Think hard," she said, raising her voice just the slightest bit. "I am sure that it will come to you."

Fiske didn't answer. He was obviously still racking his brain. Irina took pity on him.

"Would you like a hint?" She asked, her voice thick with amusement. Obviously, she was enjoying herself.

"Yes, please," Fiske admitted reluctantly. He was, to be honest, caught a bit off guard at the moment. It was rare enough for him to not fight someone from an enemy branch; but actually _talking _with them? Having a pleasant conversation, almost a game, even? It was just unheard of.

"Twenty-one," Irina said simply.

Fiske searched through his head. Twenty-one… what was the significance of that number? When in his life had the number twenty-one come up? That was the age when he had "gone missing"; the age when he was legally allowed to drink alcohol; the amount of money he "borrowed", divided by a hundred thousand, from an Ekaterina bank on his first real mission; the number of years older he was than Irina-

_Irina_.

The woman before him had blonde hair. She had an accent that certainly wasn't American. She knew Fiske, which was more than most Lucians could say. She wasn't attacking him.

_Oh my God, _he thought, letting the pole drop to his feet in shock. He gaped at Irina as the Lucian stepped out of the shadows, facing him with a smirk, her arms crossed triumphantly over her chest. Her face was a bit more worn, her body possibly even fitter than before, her skin just a tad more wrinkled; but besides that, she was the same, and just as beautiful as she was twenty-one years ago.

"I-Irina?" He spluttered.

"It took you long enough," Irina replied. She slowly walked closer to Fiske, her footsteps echoing in the silence. Their eyes never turned from each other; neither of their faces revealed a thing.

Finally, she stopped, barely an inch away from Fiske. She could feel his hot breath on her face, sending tingles up her spine. Reaching up her hand, she lightly brushed his chin with soft fingertips.

"You do not have stubble anymore," she noted, her tone mild.

"I've had time to shave," Fiske told her matter-of-factly, his mind whirling from the scent of her so close to him. "I didn't exactly have that in prison."

"No, I suppose you did not," Irina chuckled. "However, I prefer you with the stubble."

"Why?"

"I do not know," Irina shrugged. "I just do."

Fiske didn't have a response to that. And so, he tilted his head down and pressed his lips against hers for the first time in so long.

Even though Irina's insides were screaming for her to kiss back, she pulled away from him, glaring. "Do you think," she hissed, "that after not contacting me for over _two decades _that I would forgive you so easily?"

Her Lucian instincts kicked in, and she jumped into the air, landed on the pole, and pushed it behind her with her foot, giving her an extra push as she kicked Fiske in the gut, blowing the wind out of him and pushing him backwards. She landed with a handstand, and flipped back onto her feet just in time to see Fiske running towards her. With ease, she rolled to the side, letting him fly into the wall. He fell to the ground, but forced himself to stand up.

"I don't want to fight you, Irina!" he called out. "You know that I don't!"

"Ha!" Irina barked out a laugh. The two Cahills were now circling each other. "Times have changed, Fiske. We are parts of different branches. We have changed."

"Well, I know that _you _have," Fiske stated, his eyes narrowing slightly. "The Irina that I knew would _never _try to kill children; even if they were her opponents."

Irina growled under her breath. "I had no choice!" she shot back harshly. "If I had not, then I would have been banished from the Lucian branch! If not executed first! I do not wish to kill Amy and Dan," she went on, "but I value my own life, and doing what is right is not easy."

"So you aren't even going to _try _to do the right thing?" Fiske yelled back. "Not even one attempt? Even if that's what you really want? Wow. You really _have_ changed, Irina, because twenty-one years ago, you _never _would've given up. On _anything_. Not if you wanted it badly enough. Or maybe, you just don't want it." Fiske paused. "Maybe you don't want to do the right thing. Maybe you really _have _turned into a Lucian."

"Stop that!" Irina exclaimed. "Do not make me feel guilty! I am many things, Fiske, but I am not evil, and you, who once claimed to love me, should know that!"

"It wasn't a claim," Fiske shouted, "and it still isn't! But I guess that doesn't matter now!"

"How can you say that?" Irina hissed. "Of course it matters! Love _always _matters! A lot has changed in twenty-one years, Fiske- changed in my life, changed about me. But I still love you."

"How do I know you're even telling the truth about that?" Fiske retaliated. "Lucians are born liars, after all!"

"You dare question me, and insult me, after I've gone through so much for you?" Irina screamed, her anger and frustration consuming her. "After all you put me through, you dare offend me this way?"

"What did I put you through?" Fiske retorted at the top of his lungs. "You were willing, and you liked it! How can you accuse me of doing you any wrong?"

"Do not talk like you know everything about me!" Irina commanded furiously. "You may have at one time, but you do not anymore!"

With that, she rushed at Fiske, having no semblance of a plan in mind, her anger fueling her. She was caught off guard when Fiske jumped into the air, his legs horizontal, and he kicked her chest, pushing her backwards.

_The Kangaroo, _Irina thought, briefly remembering the move Fiske had taught her. She opened her eyes to see Fiske standing above her, his face saying that if he had anything to say about it, she wasn't getting up any time soon.

"What are you talking about?" he hissed. "What don't I know about you? What did I do to you?"

"It does not matter," Irina snapped, "not anymore. Nothing can be done to change what happened… any of it."

"What do you mean?" Fiske inquired, curious, yet making sure to still keep his tone firm.

Irina slowly sat up, ignoring that Fiske put out his hands defensively. "Twenty-one years ago, I failed at my first ever mission, and was thrown into a Janus dungeon," she said.

"Twenty-one years ago, we met, and, eventually, fell in love," the Lucian went on, pushing herself to her feet. She put her hands around Fiske's fists in one fluid motion and pushed them downwards to his sides, where he wouldn't be able to do anything harmful with them.

Irina privately doubted that he would do anything to her anyways, though. At this point, his attention was completely focused on her words. She took this opportunity to hop to her feet, flip him to the ground, and stand over him, their former positions reversed. She leaned down and hissed in his ear,

"Twenty-one years since I gave birth to _our son_."

Fiske gaped at her. He blinked once. Twice. Three times. Then he rasped out, "_Our son_?"

"Yes." Irina's eyes were as cold as steel. "I named him Nikolai."

"I-I'm a _father_?" Fiske stammered.

"Have we not already covered this? Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Fiske asked quietly. "You could have contacted me. I could have helped you; paid for child care."

"I _did _try to contact you," Irina said. "I tracked down the Madrigal headquarters in Easter Island- no, nobody knows- and sent messages to you there every day for the first three months of my pregnancy. You never responded."

"Irina, do you honestly think that messages from a _Lucian _would make it through the highly complex Madrigal computer network?" Fiske raised an eyebrow. "I never got any of your messages. If I had, I would have responded to you, if not come straight away. I promise."

"Your promise means nothing now," Irina glared. "I raised Nikolai by myself."

Fiske was silent for a moment. Then, "When can I meet him?" he asked, sounding almost breathless with what could only be barely contained joy and excitement. "What does he looks like? Does he have a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend, even? Is he going to college? Which one? What are his favorite activities? Is he a Boston Red Sox fan? Where does he live now? Does he work for your bran-"

"Stop," Irina said, blinking away tears. It had been so long since she had been forced to think about her beloved son, let alone talk about him with _his father_, of all people. She stood up and walked away from Fiske, not facing him, blinking away tears. "Please, stop."

"Irina?" Fiske's voice was suddenly concerned, and filled with worry. Irina heard him stand up and tentatively take a few steps closer to her. "Irina, what's wrong?"

"You cannot meet him," Irina choked out.

"Why not? I'm his father, I have every right to meet him-"

Irina whirled around to face him, her damp eyes narrowed angrily, and cut him off. "You cannot meet him because he is _dead_!" She spat, her eyes filling with fresh tears just from saying it out loud. A hand flew to her mouth as she struggled to swallow a sob.

"Oh…" Fiske felt sorrow consume him; sorrow that he could never meet his son, sorrow because Irina had tears rolling stubbornly down her cheeks. "Oh, Irina…" Without a moment's hesitation, he walked up to her and wrapped his arms around her. She buried her head in his shoulder, still refusing to bawl like he knew she wanted to, because she was Irina Spasky- no, Irina Spaskaya, and she showed no weakness. "I'm so sorry. For everything."

"There was nothing you or anyone else could have done," Irina spoke quietly. "He was very… very sick. The doctors… they could not save him." Yet another tear trickled down her face. "I only wish that I- that I had been by his side when it happened."

"It's okay," Fiske soothed her, patting down her hair. "I'm sure you had your reason."

"It's wasn't a good one."

"That doesn't matter," Fiske said. "What matters is that, besides that one instance, you were the best mother in the world to him."

Irina looked up at him. "How do you know that?"

"Because I know you."

Then, Irina kissed him. It was a slow, sweet kiss, but it sent hot fire coursing through both of their veins. They finally broke apart when they ran out of air.

"You should go now," Irina said quietly. Fiske made to protest, but she held up a hand to stop him. "We have been down here for a long time now. We do not want anyone to become suspicious. That would be bad for both of us."

"You're right," Fiske nodded sadly, "as usual." He gave Irina one last squeeze and stepped back. "Irina, I have one last favor to ask of you."

"What?"

"Don't hurt Amy and Dan. Please. They-"

"-Are your great-niece and great-nephew," Irina finished with a small smile. "I am aware. I always have been. Dan resembles you."

"Do you really think so?" Fiske asked, his eyes bright and hopeful.

Irina nodded. "Yes." She paused. "But not as much as Nikolai. He looked just like you, but with my hair."

"I bet he was handsome," Fiske half-grinned.

"Very much so." Irina blinked away tears again. "He was my beautiful baby boy."

Fiske stepped up to her again and wrapped her in another hug. "_Our _beautiful baby boy," he corrected, his face in her hair. Then he kissed her forehead and stepped back. "In case I never see you again, Irina… I love you."

With that, he turned back and ran out of the Amber Room.

"I love you too, Fiske," Irina whispered, staring at the doorway. A lone tear trailed down her face, and she quickly wiped it away.

Then, she pulled out her cell phone.

XxxxX

Fiske Cahill slowly made his way to the field. His black coat was wrapped around him, and in the dead of night, he was camouflaged so well that he couldn't be seen, let alone recognized. He knelt down when he finally found what he was looking for: a few words, etched sloppily into a rock:

**Irina Spasky**

**1962-2008**

Fiske glared at the stone. _This _was how the Lucians buried their agents? It was truly disgraceful. Then again, considering the way Irina had died, she had probably been disowned as a Lucian, because dying to save the lives of two children was simply scandalous.

A lone tear slid down Fiske's cheek. Yes, he was glad that Amy and Dan were alive. But why did Irina have to die for that to happen?

Had she really taken his request for a favor that seriously?

_No,_ the little voice inside his head told him. Yes, he was sure that she had done that favor for him; otherwise, Amy and Dan would have never made it out of the Lucian Black Circle. Sacrificing herself for their sake, however, was an entirely different matter. Irina Spasky would have never done it.

But Irina Spaskaya would have.

Fiske picked up the stone- it was easy, it hadn't even been put into the ground- and flipped it over. He chose a particularly sharp-looking rock and painstakingly wrote into the blank side of the large stone,

**Irina Nikolaievna Spaskaya**

**1962-2008**

**Adoring mother and true friend.**

**Never judge a book by its cover.**

He put the stone back in his place, wedging it firmly into the ground, and stood up. Sparing one last glance at the grave, he turned his back and walked away.

As he left, his teardrops soaked into the ground.

_**This chapter is dedicated to music4evah. Thanks for all your help!**_

_**I seriously wanted to cry the whole time I was writing that last part.**_

**_I hope that you liked this epilogue, as well as this whole story. It's the shortest of all my multi-chapter stories so far, but personally, I think it's the best. I loved writing it, and as I look over it now, I love reading it, too. Thank you to all of you for sticking with me and my story, and for all of your support._**

**_Sincerely,_**

**_Joelle8_**


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